By Geraldine Evans
The Rafferty and Llewellyn Mystery Series
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
The Casey and Catt Mystery Series
Up in Flames
A Killing Karma
Historical Novel
Reluctant Queen
Romantic Novel
Land of Dreams
Dying For You
Increasingly conscious of his lonely state, Detective Inspector Joe Rafferty signed up with the Made in Heaven dating agency, using an assumed name to stop his nosy Ma finding out what he'd done. What he hadn't bargained on was that the first two women with whom he struck up a rapport should wind up murdered – and with himself, or rather his alter ego Nigel Blythe, in the frame for the crime.
Will the anonymity of the alias be enough to carry him through the investigation? And will the extra time he's bought prove sufficient to find the women's real killer before the finger of suspicions is pointed at him?
* * *
‘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 thoroughly enjoyed Dying For You, the sixth in the series, A lot of humour is injected in Rafferty's narrative. He's got himself in an impossible situation and one wonders what can go wrong next. I savoured this book and am keen to read the rest in the series asap.’;
—Eurocrime
‘Twists, double twists and triple twists. Two solid hours of reading pleasure.’
—New Mystery Reader
‘For the growing number of Rafferty and Llewellyn fans this latest novel in the series by Geraldine Evans will certainly not disappoint. This is a very enjoyable read with a plot that moves at a good pace, is full of surprises, has lots of humour and a very satisfactory denouement. Highly recommended.’
—Mystery Women
‘A fun read for the mystery lover who enjoys tales with a twist. A cleverly-plotted tale. Enjoy.’
—Murder and Mayhem Bookclub
Dying For You
A Rafferty & Llewellyn Mystery
by
Geraldine Evans
Dying For You
Copyright © 2004 and 2011 by Geraldine Evans
Discover other titles by Geraldine Evans at www.geraldineevans.com
Published by Geraldine Evans
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the publisher.
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Dying For You
A Rafferty & Llewellyn Mystery
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Inspector Joseph Rafferty's Monday had started badly. But, although he had banged his head on a corner of the kitchen shelf, nearly set fire to his flat when he left the toast to its own devices while he hunted for pain killers, and received a threatening letter from the electricity company for non-payment of its red bill, all the morning's irritations failed to dent his new-found happiness.
It took his arrival at work to do that - and the discovery that the day - potentially the rest of his life - was about to take a turn for the worse.
As he entered the police station, a song hovering on his lips, from behind the desk Constable Bill Beard hailed him. ‘Heard the latest, Inspector?’
‘Surprise me,’ Rafferty unwisely invited.
‘We've a new murder case. The ‘Lonely Hearts’ murder the lads are calling it.’ Beard shook his grey head. ‘These young women - no sense, some of them. Seem to positively put themselves in the way of murderers.’
His head still throbbing from its argument with the shelf, Rafferty had let Beard's news wash over him. It was only when Beard mentioned the name of the victim that Rafferty's head shot up as if someone had inserted a 1000-watt probe into his rectum.
Fortunately, as Beard spoke, there was a tremendous clap of thunder directly overhead and the storm which had been threatening since the previous Friday freed itself from its meteorological shackles and lashed the car park and the few poor under-dressed souls caught between it and the safety of the police station. It distracted Beard from Rafferty's shocked reaction.
Above the noise of the downpour and the curses of the soaked stragglers as they tumbled into reception, Rafferty found a strangled voice to utter the dead girl's name. ‘Estelle Meredith?’ before he floundered to a halt, his new-found happiness washed into the gutters like the car park's litter. Dimly, he perceived trouble afoot.
As the soaked complainants dispersed to their work stations, emptying reception, Beard raised shaggy eyebrows and asked, ‘Knew her, did you?’
Instinctively Rafferty denied it. ‘Me? No. Not at all. Never met the girl in my life.’
His sleeping conscience stirred, called him ‘Peter’, for his thrice-denial. But although his conscience might throw accusations about with Old Testament fervour, he was relieved when Beard shrugged aside his odd response.
Fortunately, the news had been broken by Bill Beard rather than one of the station's ambitious young blades whose observational skills had been honed to recognise guiltily furtive replies when they heard them. But Beard was desk-bound nowadays and his ambition - never very strong - had withered on the vine as he plodded his way to retirement.
‘The victim was a member of a dating agency. The ‘Made In Heaven’ dating agency.’ Beard snorted. ‘Made in The Other Place, if you ask me. According to Harry Simpson, who's been put in charge of the case, the poor girl was so beaten and slashed you could believe some demon had been at work on her. God knows how Harry will cope. He hasn't been looking too chipper lately. Reckon this case is likely to finish him off.’
Shell-shocked by Beard's revelations, Rafferty nodded absently at this statement of the obvious; the entire nick – apart from Harry Simpson himself – knew he should have gone on sick leave weeks ago.
Conscious that not only was he probably the last person to see Estelle alive, but that witnesses could testify to this, Rafferty questioned Beard further.
What-ho, Rafferty, he mused to himself as he slunk off upstairs to his office, Beard's last words ringing like a death-knell in his ears. ‘Sounds like an open and shut case to me. Another agency member, some bloke called Nigel Blythe, is in the frame. He was obliging enough to supply that agency with his address. Man must be a right pillock.’
Rafferty couldn't disagree with this sentiment. What had his stars said in that morning's paper? ‘A day not without its troubles. As Saturn squares Mars, you would be wise to keep a low profile.’
And how, he thought. For not only had the engaging Estelle Meredith who had sparked that morning's happiness been savagely murdered,
it was clear he'd managed to make himself the chief suspect. And all he'd been doing was looking for love...
It had been his sergeant, Dafyd Llewellyn, who had inadvertently put the idea into his head. Llewellyn had tentatively suggested, as he and Rafferty had made their way to the Register office on the day of Llewellyn's wedding to Rafferty's cousin, Maureen just over a week ago, that there was a girl named Abra whom he'd like Rafferty to meet.
Llewellyn seemed to want everyone to share his happiness - even Rafferty - whom, in spite of being his Best Man, had nearly managed to make the always early Welshman late for his own wedding. Suspecting the love-struck Llewellyn wouldn't let the matter rest, Rafferty knew he'd better squash it immediately.
‘Don't you start, Dafyd,’ he ordered. ‘Isn't one matchmaker in the family enough?’ Rafferty's Ma was the equal of any professional matchmaker.
He wanted no more self-appointed experts – certainly not his own sergeant.
Llewellyn had said no more after that and Rafferty had congratulated himself on his decisive handling of the situation. But no sooner were Dafyd and Maureen safely ensconced among the Ancient Greek ruins they'd decided were the perfect honeymoon destination, than Rafferty had seen an advert in the local paper, The Elmhurst Echo, which prompted him to think further on the subject of his empty love-life.
‘Girls,’ it had said. ‘Tired of dating serial Casanovas and men who turn out to be married? Why not sign up with us and let us check them out so you don't have to?
‘Guys, tired of cold-hearted gold-diggers? All our female members are well-educated professionals and earn enough to be able to buy their own gold.’
On impulse, Rafferty had torn out the advert placed by the Made In Heaven dating agency and stuffed it in his pocket where it provided a constant reminder. In the days that followed, he had frequently fingered the increasingly dog-eared cutting which he had taken to carrying around with him like a talisman, a guardian against the loneliness he was beginning to feel down to his soul.
Then, one day, he decided that, like Sam Dally, the medical profession's very own mañana-man, he'd delayed for long enough. Llewellyn had been on honeymoon the best part of a week; it was time he made his mind up. After all, it was April. What was it the old saw said? ‘In spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’
But you're not a young man, any more, Rafferty reminded himself. You're fast approaching another decade. Forty was on the horizon – the age when life was supposed to begin. But he suspected, unless he gave it a push start, he would still be alone and lonely at 40. So if he hoped to have a wooed, bedded and wedded partner by then, he'd better start now.
And as the quickest route seemed to be via a professional dating agency he determined to sign up with the Made In Heaven lot. But before he did so there had been a few essential arrangements he had considered it wise to make.
When he had noticed the advert for the Made In Heaven dating agency and finally decided to do something about his lonely, single state, he had been looking for love. A harmless enough pursuit, he had believed. He had even felt a certain pride that he was finally doing something positive to help himself. He had even taken the precaution of providing himself with a different identity. Like a lot of Rafferty's ideas, the alter ego touch had seemed a good one at the time. Positively inspired, in fact, given his Ma's talent for poking her nose into what should be his private business.
Fortunately, he had known exactly who was most likely to agree to make a temporary loan of this other identity: Jerry Kelly, one of his numerous cousins. From the tiny part of the family that had reached the professional classes, Jerry had climbed to dizzy heights. He was an estate agent. So Rafferty was confident he'd do anything for money.
Jerry didn't disappoint him. He was even obliging enough to agree to come to Rafferty's home on his way to a viewing rather than expecting Rafferty to trail down to his new place; a swanky warehouse apartment by the docks, for which he had employed the services of a flowing-haired, interior designer.
Rafferty had felt like a parent whose offspring didn't quite come up to the mark as his cousin gave his home a sneering once-over. After a final sneer round the room, Jerry eyed him speculatively and asked, ‘So what did you want to see me about that was so urgent? It's only because you're family that I found time in my busy schedule to come and see you.’
Rafferty knew ‘family’ tended to be low on Jerry's list of things to do, he suspected Jerry had sniffed out the possibility of filthy lucre. After a lot of humming and hawing, Rafferty told him. He was treated to the rare sight of ‘Mr Cool’ being gob-smacked as Jerry stared incredulously at him.
‘Let me make sure I've got this straight. You want to borrow my passport and one of my credit cards?’ Jerry's gaze narrowed and he asked, ‘don't tell me the family's only copper's bending in the criminal direction of the rest of the family?’
‘Nothing so common, Jerry,’ Rafferty reassured him. Common tended to make Jerry shudder. Much like family. ‘It's – well, it's a bit delicate.’
His cousin folded his designer-suited arms and grinned. ‘Delicate's this year's new brash. All the rage. So let's hear it.’
Rafferty forced himself onwards. ‘I want to sign up with a dating agency.’
Jerry's true colours – definitely not this year's new brash – were splashed across Rafferty's living room. When his cousin's sniggers finally spluttered to a halt, he asked, ‘Why can't you sign up under your own name?’
‘When I've got a Ma who's more nosey than Pinocchio on a good lying day? If she thought I was trying to fix myself up with a steady date she'd start organising me a ‘nice little girlfriend’ of her own choice again. Don't you think I've had enough of that? The agency insists on payment by credit card. No way do I want a dating agency's bill showing up on my statement. Ma's got a key to my flat and if she discovers I've joined a dating agency she'll re-launch her matchmaking with a vengeance. And since concluding my sergeant's matrimonial arrangements to her satisfaction she'll have time on her hands.’
‘Why on earth did you let her have a key?’
‘I didn't,’ Rafferty ruefully revealed. ‘She helped herself at the same time she decided I needed a housekeeper and proposed and seconded herself for the job. I know, I know,’ Rafferty defended himself as he saw an expression of contemptuous pity cross his cousin's face. ‘Only Ma's a difficult woman to say no to. Or rather, it's not the nay-saying as such that's difficult, it's more the getting Ma to even hear the ‘No’ word. She's got ears that hear every nay as a yea when it suits her. You know what a human steamroller she is when she's determined on something.’
Jerry had had a taste of Ma Rafferty's steamroller propensities himself in the past. Now he tended to stay out of her road. Rafferty often wished he could. Sensing the tide of empathy flowing in his favour, he added, ‘Obviously, the personal ID I supply has to match the ID on the credit card, so I'll need to borrow your passport or driving license as well. We're a similar age and look enough alike.’
Jerry's nostrils flared at this as if something unpleasant had just exploded beneath them. His cousin's reaction came as no surprise. Because, though they had a superficial similarity, Jerry would be the first to point out the many differences. There was their hair for a start. Jerry's, which shared an image with the rest of him, was a sleek chestnut whilst Rafferty's auburn went for the gritty realism of wayward spikes and unruly collar-curling. And although their features were much the same, somehow, in Rafferty face, his cousin's sophisticated looks metamorphosed into a more plebeian cast. Maybe they could be altered, Rafferty told himself, if he practised superior expressions in front of the mirror as he imagined Jerry did. ‘God knows the pictures on those documents are always pretty awful.’
‘Mine aren't,’ Jerry told him, condescendingly. ‘I had my photos done by a professional. Cost me a packet, too, but it was money well-spent. At least my passport photo doesn't make me look like a criminal.’
Rafferty's did. But th
en he had used the photo-booth in the nearest supermarket for his passport and driving license. They'd make the Pope himself look like an escapee from Strangeways. Now, he added the inducement that Jerry had so unerringly sniffed out and which had brought him hot-foot to Rafferty's flat. ‘I'll give you cash for the agency's joining fee and six months’ worth of their monthly service charge with a hundred pounds on top as a thank you for services rendered.’
‘Make it two hundred and you've got a deal. As long as you can guarantee I won't become involved in anything dicey.’
If it hadn't been for the fact that he needed to keep Jerry sweet, Rafferty would have laughed out loud at his estate agent cousin's pious pretence to ethical concerns. Luckily, the realization that this whole venture was getting seriously expensive curbed any inclination to levity. Trust an estate agent to get a good bargain. But he wasn't about to start bartering. The additional financial inducement was the decider for his extravagant, permanently broke cousin.
‘There'll be no worries on that score.’ Rafferty assured him. ‘You know me. I'm a straight copper. Would I involve you in anything even half-way dicey?’
At this, Jerry stuck his hand out. ‘You've got a deal. Have a few hot dates for me. I'm going away this evening to York for a week on an estate agent's convention, so I'll even throw in the use of my apartment to get your romancing off to a discreet start. You don't want to risk your Ma and her feather duster bursting in on you at an interesting moment.’
‘God forbid,’ said Rafferty. ‘Thanks Jerry. I owe you one.’
‘I know you do. And don't call me Jerry.’ With the promise of money already burning a hole in his Gucci wallet, it was clear Jerry felt he was safe to revert to a patronising tone. ‘I've told you, dear boy’ - he had taken to using such affected endearments to go with his name-change - ‘I'm Nigel. Nigel Blythe. Not Jerry Kelly. So downmarket.’
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