'Might have stunned her, made her less able to fight back. But there are several indications that she was conscious before she died. And if you left that wall to hold itself up and came a bit closer, you'd not only be able to see the pinpoint haemorrhages in the eyes, consistent with suffocation, you'd also be able to see the grazes on the back of her legs. As if she'd scratched them on the rough grasses, as she tried to drag her legs up to remove a heavy weight.'
Rafferty took Sam's word for it and stayed where he was.
'And then, there's bruising to the skin around the wrists. I'd say her killer forced her bent arms up beside her head and held them there with one hand to stop her struggling - unnecessary if she had been unconscious.'
Rafferty nodded and reminded Sam that the dry grass under her heels had been reduced to shreds, which suggested her shoes had beaten a tattoo on the ground before she had died. All in all, it seemed pretty conclusive that she had not only been killed where she had been found but had been conscious at the time. Now, he tried another tack. 'I suppose we can take it for granted that she was killed by a man?'
'I wouldn't take anything for granted if I were you, Rafferty,' said Dally, as he threw his gloves in the bin and removed his blood-stained gown. 'Especially as I doubt if it took much effort at all. She was only a slender little thing.'
It was funny, Rafferty mused, keeping his eyes averted from the cadaver on the table, although he knew the victim had a slight figure, he continued to think of her as a buxom woman, some sort of earth mother. The expression "kind but firm" which Shore had used, invariably produced such a picture in his mind. He toyed with the idea of asking Llewellyn, who had studied psychology, what the professionals would make of such a confession, but thought better of it. Anyway, he had a good idea what Llewellyn would say. Psychologists usually managed to make the most innocent revelations sound perverted. Generally, as far as he understood it, they traced everything back to a fellow's mother and Rafferty didn't need an honours degree to figure out that they'd have a field-day with his.
'Thanks, Sam.' Rafferty headed gratefully for the door, and away from the assorted odours of the pathology department. 'I'll see you at the inquest, I suppose?'
'Wouldn't miss it, laddie, especially as it's being held in that hall next to The Green Man.' Sam beamed ebulliently at him. 'The publican there knows his trade. Keeps a very special malt for favoured customers, like yours truly. Want me to put a word in for you?'
After witnessing the post mortem, Rafferty doubted he'd ever again have the stomach for any alcohol, and he managed only a sickly grin and a shake of the head before following Llewellyn out to the car. As all the shady places in the car park had, of course, been appropriated hours ago, they had had to park where they could find a place. And, after standing in the baking sun for so long, the inside of the vehicle was as hot as a furnace. Rafferty opened all the windows before he settled into his seat
'Right, let's go and see the family again,' he said, as he started the engine. 'There are enough doubts now about the killer's identity to press them for statements. Hopefully, as - with the conspicuous exception of Mrs Shore - they're all supposed to have been so fond of the victim, they'll be only too happy to do their duty in that direction.'
His words reminded him of a duty of his own that he'd rather forget. But, he knew if he didn't at least ask, his ma would give him no peace, so he might as well get it over with, before they were well and truly immersed in the eighteen hour days of a murder enquiry.
'Speaking of happy families. How goes it between you and Maureen?'
Unfortunately, as Maureen was Rafferty's second cousin, and Llewellyn his partner, his ma took a proprietary interest in the romance and was continually badgering him as to its progress. He wasn't surprised when Llewellyn's reply amounted to no more than a brief, 'All right,' that more or less advised him to mind his own business. Llewellyn believed in keeping personal things personal, Rafferty reminded himself wearily. The trouble was, Kitty Rafferty didn't share the reserved Welshman's love of privacy. She either didn't, or wouldn't, understand that, although Rafferty had fostered the relationship, from mixed motives of altruism and self-interest, he hadn't expected to oversee it personally. But convinced - with some reason he had to admit - that the emotional hang-ups lingering from a strict Methodist upbringing would render the otherwise perfectly capable Welshman inadequate in the rites of courtship, his ma felt that Llewellyn needed encouraging. Rafferty reflected that she was just the woman to do it.
She'd been driving him mad on the subject for weeks, and now that he'd finally broached it, he blundered determinedly on, trying his best to ignore the closed-up expression on the Welshman's face, as he recalled the latest leverage his ma had primed him with. 'It's Maureen's birthday tomorrow,' he commented, trying to sound unrehearsed, and hoping it would ease a revealing remark or two from Llewellyn. 'I suppose you'll be getting her a present?'
'Her birthday?' Llewellyn frowned. 'Are you sure? She didn't say.'
'Course I'm sure.' Although remembering birthdays wasn't something generally expected of a mere male in the Rafferty matriarchy, he was confident that his ma wouldn't get such a thing wrong. The women in the family did the remembering and the selecting, all that was required of him and the other males was that they coughed up the cash. And as present buying Rafferty-style had as many competitive elements as the Olympics, he reckoned he got off lightly.
Relieved to be able to abandon the agony aunt pose, and adopt instead that of the wise uncle, he went on, 'That's women for you. Expect you to know such things without being told and then get all sniffy when you fail.' He shook his head, pleased, for once, to be able to boast a superior knowledge. 'Women can be very unreasonable about such things, Llewellyn. Take it from me.'
'Not Maureen,' Llewellyn shook his head, and his lips parted in a rare smile. 'She's far too sensible.'
Rafferty looked pityingly at him. Although both intelligent and intellectual, at twenty nine, Llewellyn was still something of an innocent where women were concerned. With an air more of sorrow than superiority, Rafferty put him straight. 'Listen Taff, they're all like that. Don't think just because Maureen's always got her head stuck in some old Greek geezer's book that she's not the same.' If she wasn't, her mother certainly was, he reminded himself, and if they did end up getting hitched, it would be unwise for Llewellyn to get on the wrong side of Maureen's mother so early in the relationship. With a sly glance at Llewellyn, he wondered if his sergeant had realised yet that that formidable snob, Claire Tyler-Jenkins, was being primed by Kitty Rafferty as his future mother-in-law?
He had been surprised when his ma had taken a shine to the Welshman. He had been even more surprised when Kitty Rafferty, a committed Roman Catholic - who thought the Pope an infallible deity instead of a poor old mortal like anyone else - hadn't raised a murmur against the slowly burgeoning, interdenominational romance between the Welshman and Rafferty's Catholic cousin, Maureen. In fact, once she had finally accepted that he and Maureen would never become an item, she had been positively encouraging. No doubt, a change in the Welshman's religion would be his ma's next campaign. It would be just like her to even offer to give him Catechism instruction herself. Poor Llewellyn.
Rafferty said no more, but the thoughtful look on Llewellyn's face was sufficient to satisfy him that his point had gone home. Although Llewellyn had confided little, Rafferty felt that the little had been significant. If Llewellyn was at the present buying stage, or even just the present considering stage, it indicated a certain depth to the relationship. That suited him. He'd be happy if it deepened into something permanent - he favoured a very long engagement himself, because, not only had the more irritating edges been smoothed off Llewellyn's personality since he and Maureen had got together, but, as a bonus, all his ma's considerable matchmaking talents had been concentrated away from him.
Pleased at his dexterous handling of the situation, he spared his reflection in the driving mirror a brief congratulatory g
lance. Two and a half years after being widowed, he was just beginning to savour his freedom, and he was very keen to keep it that way. Beside him in the passenger seat his sergeant was getting restless in spite of the welcome breeze brought by the car's movement.
'About this present, sir,' Llewellyn began, after another contemplative five minutes. Unlike Rafferty, he wasn't a man for impulsive reactions. 'What do you think I ought to get?'
'Call me Joe, for God's sake,' Rafferty commanded. Llewellyn's constant "sirring" got on his nerves. He hadn't bothered to get on first name terms before because, although he had been happy to discover that the Welshman was very close-mouthed, he had still harboured doubts about their partnership. But, in many ways, he realised, they made a good team. Odd, perhaps, but better than he'd expected.
And it would almost be worth welcoming him into the clan to see the invariably neat and precise Welshman at one of the family's hooleys, jacket off, tie under his ear, as he leapt about with the rest, a half pint of the water of life whooshing around inside him. Rafferty smiled inwardly and permitted himself another piece of advice. 'I'd send her a bunch of flowers, Dafyd,' he counselled confidently, as he drove into the Shores' entrance. 'Can't go wrong with flowers.'
CHAPTER FIVE
Mrs Griffiths again showed them into the library, where Henry Longman was slumped in a large armchair. The curtains had been drawn, as if to shut out the world, and a soft lamp bathed the open pages of the wedding album - his own presumably - that rested in his lap. To Rafferty, it seemed a morbid occupation for one so recently widowed. A bottle and a heavy tumbler, half full of Scotch, were conveniently within reach. From Henry's glazed expression, the freshly-broken paper seals discarded on the table, and the level of the bottle, Rafferty guessed it wasn't the first of the day.
'I'm sorry to have to trouble you so soon after your wife's death, Mr Longman,' he began, 'but it's necessary to ask you a few questions.'
Henry didn't appear to have heard him. He was unshaven, and he gazed vacantly at the album with eyes red-rimmed from weeping, while his long, slender fingers stroked the glossy print of his dead wife's face. As Rafferty said his name again, Henry raised his head. Conscious of a feeling of intrusion caused by poking his officially sanctioned nose into heavy private emotions, Rafferty wanted to get the interview over as quickly as possible. But, before he could say anything further, Henry launched into a rambling reminiscence.
'Charles laughed at me when I told him I was going to marry Barbara, you know.' His voice was sluggish as though grief had slowed his mental processes. 'He hardly knew her then and he told me she was a gold-digger, and took pleasure in making sure she knew that he was the one with the money, not me. Thought that would be the last I'd see of her.' He gave a sad, yet triumphant smile. 'But he was wrong. She still married me. She's been good for me, even if... Been good for me,' he repeated, before distress twisted his thin features. 'Was. Was good for me. Must remember. Got to remember. Hilary said ... must face up to it.'
Rafferty and Llewellyn shuffled uncomfortably and avoided each others' eyes. God, this was awful, Rafferty thought. But at least he was bearing up better than Llewellyn, who looked as if he was praying for a visitation from the Archangel Gabriel to put an end to Henry's pitiful ramblings.
Though Llewellyn's prayers were only partly answered, neither of them complained to the Almighty when Charles Shore, presumably summoned by the housekeeper, strode into the room. As Shore took in Henry's slouched figure, irritation seemed to tighten his jaw. He twitched the album from Henry's trembling fingers, and told him, 'Looking through that isn't going to bring her back, Harry.'
Rafferty winced at Shore's insensitivity, forgetting that he'd thought much the same only a few minutes earlier. But as he gazed at Henry, he decided Charles might have a point. Henry was the type who could turn mourning into a lifetime's occupation. It wasn't doing him a kindness to encourage him. Still, he remembered, it was early days.
'Have you told him yet?' Rafferty quietly asked Shore, after checking that Henry, his chin once again slumped to his chest, was taking no further interest in them. 'That his wife was murdered, I mean?'
'I told him.' Shore shrugged and added, 'Though whether he's taken it in or not is another matter.'
Rafferty nodded. Approaching Henry, he pulled up a chair, and sat down beside him, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. 'Mr Longman, can you please listen to me.' Once he was sure he had Henry's attention, he went on. 'I understand that Mr Shore has broken the news to you that your wife was murdered?'
Henry nodded. He looked bemused. 'I don't understand it, though. Why would anyone want to murder Barbara?'
'That's what we have to find out, sir,' said Rafferty. 'That's why we needed to speak to you and the rest of the family. We hope you'll be able to help us. To tell us something about your wife's life, how she spent her time, what she did. If she had any enemies and...'
Henry looked shocked at the suggestion. 'She didn't have any enemies. It must have been a madman. She was a good woman. Everyone loved her, thought the world of her... especially the children. The children...oh God, who's going to tell Maxie? I can't do it. I really can't.' He turned a stricken face towards Charles. 'You know how much he loved her.' He clutched the arms of his chair tightly, as if he thought they were going to drag him out of it forcibly to break the news to his son.
Charles Shore took a quick impatient breath. 'Calm down, Henry. I've told him. I've told them all. Who else was there to do it?' he demanded, half to himself, with the first real show of irritation. 'He took it surprisingly well, considering.' He turned away, and beckoning to Rafferty, led him out of earshot of Henry. 'The post mortem's been carried out now, I take it?' Rafferty nodded. 'And? The results confirm she's the third victim of that serial killer?'
Rafferty shook his head. 'In fact, from our enquiries, I'm inclined to the view that her murderer was someone else entirely.'
'Someone else?' Shore studied him for a moment, before he asked quietly, 'What makes you think so?'
'I can't go into that, sir, but I can assure you there are sufficient differences between the three cases for there to be a reasonable doubt. That's why I shall need your co-operation.'
Shore nodded once. 'Of course, anything I can do. And Henry, naturally. You've only got to look at him to see what all this is doing to him.'
Rafferty took a deep breath. 'Then he won't mind providing us with a statement. In fact, we'll need statements from everyone here. Perhaps we can start with you, Mr Shore?'
'Statements?' Shore's cold grey eyes fixed unblinkingly on Rafferty's. Rafferty forced himself not to drop his eyes. He didn't want Shore to think he could intimidate him. 'You surely don't suspect that one of us killed Barbara?'
'It's just routine, sir,' he quickly placated. 'And you did promise your co-operation,' he reminded him. For a moment Shore looked as if he was going to make an issue of it, but as Rafferty went on, he subsided. 'As I said, I have my doubts that Mrs Longman's murder and the ones in Suffolk are connected, though, of course, the possibility is still being investigated. But, in the meantime, I have to carry on and eliminate as many people as possible. To do that, I need to ask questions that might seem insensitive.'
Shore drew in a deep breath. 'I see. Very well. You'd better get on with it, then.'
'Thank you, sir. If we could start with you? My Sergeant'll take notes.'
Without further protest, Shore began. 'I was in my office in Elmhurst most of Thursday. It's near the bus station in King Street. I had to prepare for an important meeting the next day, as I told you, and needed to work on some figures - my staff will confirm it, if necessary. I reached home about 8.30 p m Thursday evening.'
'And you, sir?' Rafferty turned to Henry Longman. Henry seemed to have shrunk further into his chair. 'Mr Longman? I'm afraid we need to know where you were on Thursday.'
'Henry was in a meeting,' Charles answered for him. 'At the local Chamber of Commerce. It can't have broken up much before five as
there was a lot to go through. Isn't that right, Henry? Henry?' he prompted, raising his voice slightly.
Henry's head jerked like a marionette's whose strings had been pulled. He ignored the question and asked one of his own. 'When will I be able to bury my wife?' It was simple and poignant and made Rafferty shuffle uncomfortably. 'It won't be just yet, I'm afraid, sir. We have to wait for the coroner to release your wife's body, and these things can take some time.'
Thankfully, Henry seemed satisfied with his answer and didn't press for more information. Rafferty had been careful to avoid mentioning the post mortem to him. From past experience, he was aware that the phrase, and all it conjured up, sometimes brought on hysteria in a victim's family, so generally he did his best to avoid it. Not unnaturally, relatives could accept the death of a loved one more easily than they could the thought of them being cut about afterwards. Rafferty thought this could be because murder was at least a very human thing, brought about by hot emotions like lust and hatred that everyone had experienced. But the p m was a chilling clinical procedure, warmed only by irreverent black humour. Whenever he watched one, Rafferty imagined himself on the table, being discussed as if he was no more than a side of beef well past his prime, and he hoped to heaven that, when his time came, he would die a nice simple death, so a post mortem would be unnecessary.
Henry's head had sunk back to his chest. Reluctantly, Rafferty pressed him for an answer. 'Can you confirm that you were at a meeting at the Chamber of Commerce all day on Thursday, Mr Longman?'
Henry's eyes had a hunted look, and his words, as he answered, were slurred, as if reluctance, as well as the drink, had thickened his tongue. 'Er yes. That's right. All day.'
'You're quite certain about that, Mr Longman?' Rafferty looked sharply at him.
Henry reached for his glass and swallowed what was left of the whisky. 'Course I'm sure. Chamber of Commerce ... all day ... witnesses.' He stumbled to his feet, almost falling over as he did so. 'Scuse me. Don't feel well.'
Down Among the Dead Men Page 5
