Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  He carefully considered the question. But in spite of his feelings of guilt, in spite of all the lies, Rafferty didn't think his behaviour unwarranted. He had only to remember Jenny and Estelle as they had been to know his motives were fuelled more by the desire to avenge their deaths. He wanted their killer to face justice, but to have any hope of achieving this end he needed to remain free and untainted by suspicion. Still, Rafferty reminded himself, he couldn't be doing too badly. He was still free, still running the investigation. Admittedly that owed more to Harry Simpson's belief in his innocence than his own guile. It was strange that Harry should choose to give him the benefit of the doubt, for although they'd worked amicably enough as colleagues for years, they'd never become really close. Harry had always been what Rafferty secretly feared he would become himself – a lonely man married to the job.

  When the foot-sore Llewellyn returned to the station he revealed what Rafferty already knew, but which, thankfully, Llewellyn had taken most of the day to discover; Cranston's supposition about the taxi-driver being ‘Nigel Blythe's’ was correct.

  ‘A man calling himself Nigel Blythe rang Elmhurst Taxis to pick him up from The Huntsman in town, around seven on the Friday evening and take him to the Cranstons’ house.’ Llewellyn subsided in a chair looking so exhausted that Rafferty felt even more guilt-filled. ‘The same driver confirmed he also collected this man from the Cranstons’ at ten that same evening and dropped him in the centre of Elmhurst. His description tallies with those the party guests supplied.’

  Rafferty nodded. He'd needed a drink, he remembered. One that wasn't wine, both to calm himself down and to celebrate meeting Jenny...

  ‘I asked the cab driver if his passenger had any bloodstains on his clothing; he said not, which indicates he must have brought some protective covering with him, which again confirms these murders were premeditated. But even now we've traced the cab driver, it doesn't get us much further forward. We still know so little about this character. All we are sure of is that whoever he is he's not the real Nigel Blythe.’

  Llewellyn continued. ‘The Huntsman is obviously not a regular haunt of this imposter. He probably picked a public house he had never previously used in order to help conceal his identity. Certainly, none of the staff recognised him from the photo-fit, though one said he thought he recalled the man used the public phone to ring for the cab. And since that line has brought us to a dead end I think it's time to question Nigel Blythe again. I'm sure, if he's carefully questioned, there must be something he can tell us.’

  Rafferty was sure of it, too.

  ‘I'd like to call and see him tomorrow, first thing.’

  Rafferty knew it would be unwise to put Llewellyn off again. But as soon as Llewellyn had left for home, Rafferty rang his cousin on his mobile and – for yet another consideration – plea-bargained his continued silence.

  With both his emotions and his wallet worn out, Rafferty wished he'd conquered his technophobia and gone the internet dating route. But for all the computer courses the Super had forced him to attend, he was still a reluctant geek. And as for the personal ads in the local papers, his perusal of the first half dozen with their extravagant claims had put him off looking further. So, obstinately, he had clung to the belief that a professional agency, one that was a member of a professional body, the ABIA - The Association of British Introduction Agencies, who had been ‘setting standards for the UK’s introduction services since 1985’, would, for him, be the best route. They offered discretion and would not waste his time – or his anticipated repeat membership fee – by raising unwarranted hopes about a fellow member's personal attributes.

  And so it might have proved if The Made In Heaven agency hadn't been targeted by a murderer.

  When he arrived at work the next morning after another night spent tossing and turning, Rafferty knew, whatever else he might be avoiding, he could no longer put off going to the mortuary to see the bodies of the murder victims.

  He had deliberately put this off, reluctant to see in death the two young women who had so appealed to him in life. But it was his duty to go. How many times had he told junior officers, particularly young Smales, who was even more squeamish than Rafferty, that seeing the body of a murder victim would arm them with a determination to find the person responsible and bring them to justice?

  Llewellyn had already visited the mortuary. But then Llewellyn was a strictly brought up Methodist who had been taught never to shirk duty's demands however unpleasant. And unpleasant he would find it as Llewellyn had told him all about it on his return.

  ‘What sort of person can kill a young woman like Jenny Warburton so savagely and then just shove her behind dustbins as if she was so much trash?’ Llewellyn had asked, shaking his head in despair. ‘The killer even scattered part of the contents of the bins over her. For added concealment? Or to degrade her after death as well as before? It didn't stop the local foxes finding her body.’

  Rafferty had winced, even though, with his usual delicacy, Llewellyn refrained from elaborating on his description of Jenny's end; he didn't need to.Even without the official photographs, Rafferty's nightmares supplied, only too clearly, sufficient detail of the mutilated bodies of both Jenny and Estelle.

  He blinked several times rapidly. He had been trying to put from his mind the pictures his nightmares had conjured up of the sweet and lovely Jenny ending up covered in rubbish and providing a meal for the local vermin. The forensic report indicated that she must have died almost immediately after she had walked round the corner of the Cranstons’ home to their parking area. The location of her body pointed to that conclusion as did the post-mortem hypostasis.

  With savage self-accusation, Rafferty asked himself again, why didn't I walk her to her car? If I had, she'd still be alive.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  Rafferty came to himself to find Llewellyn standing in front of his desk, studying him with a concerned expression. So deep in thought and self-recrimination had he been that he hadn't noticed the Welshman enter. Rafferty couldn't bring himself to ask him how he'd got on with Nigel; no doubt, if his cousin chose to drop a heavy hint or two in spite of the sizeable bribe he'd extracted, he would learn all about it soon enough.

  He forced a smile and reassured Llewellyn. ‘Nothing wrong with me, Daff,’ he said. ‘Just this case. It's a bit of a choker, isn't it?’

  Silently, Llewellyn had nodded.

  Since Harry Simpson had been in charge of the case when the girl's bodies had been found Rafferty had escaped attendance at the post-mortems. But he still had to brace himself for what most would regard as the less demanding duty of the two, as he made his way to the station car park and headed for the mortuary, whipping his glasses off as soon as he had exited police premises.

  The male mortuary assistant strolled along the bank of drawers, pulled out two and withdrew the concealing sheets from both bodies. ‘Here are your Lonely Hearts victims, Inspector. Take a look and welcome,’ he invited in a tone of black cheer that he must have caught from Sam Dally.

  Rafferty managed to bite back the sharp retort. But given that he'd taken a fancy – more than a fancy – to the two victims, he was feeling especially sensitive. He had feared he would feel like a voyeur when he stared at their naked flesh. Thankfully, as he edged forward till he was peering into the face that the toe-tag assured him was Jenny Warburton, the fates relented and saved him from feeling this additional guilt. All he felt was the deep sadness of grief.

  After hearing Simpson and Llewellyn's descriptions, studying the scene of crime photographs and reading Sam Dally's PM report, he had steeled himself for the same sights in the flesh. At least he had thought he had. But he still rocked back on his heels when he saw what remained of Jenny's once-lovely face.

  According to Sam's report, she had been bludgeoned with some considerable force. She had also been slashed around the face, neck and chest with a sharp knife. Neither weapon had so far been found. There was little left of the l
oveliness that Rafferty had so admired. Even Jenny's long, silky blonde hair had been hacked off in a final act of savagery that sickened him.

  With a heavy sigh he drew the sheet back over her and, with dragging steps, made his way to the second drawer. But as he gazed down at Estelle Meredith he saw that Sam's report had been right. For although Estelle had suffered a similar attack and had her hair hacked off also, her face was still recognisable, unlike Jenny's. It was curious.

  He was experienced enough to know that serial killers, if that was what they had on their hands, almost invariably became more violent with each attack, not less. Although her body hadn't been discovered till four days after her death, the post-mortem – as well as other evidence – had revealed that Jenny had been the first victim, not the second, so why had she been so much more brutalised than Estelle? If Llewellyn was right and their killer was a misogynist, then he loathed women so much he couldn't even bring himself to touch their flesh with his own. Certainly, whatever else he might have done, he had raped neither girl

  Rafferty gestured to the assistant that he had seen enough. He was trudging forlornly back to the car park when he heard Sam Dally ‘hello’ him from the other end of the long corridor. He sighed, not sure he had the stomach, in this particular case, for Sam's usual colourful humour, which, like the early Fords, was all black. He watched, teeth gritted, as the rubicund Dally bounced along the corridor towards him.

  He peered into Rafferty's face. ‘Wouldn't have recognized you if it hadn't been for your tired brown suit. Llewellyn told me about your new image. I have to say it's not an improvement.’ Sam patted his own bald spot and added, ‘You'll lose your hair naturally soon enough without anticipating it.’ Thankfully, he made no further comment on Rafferty's looks and became more business-like. ‘You've been to see the two Lonely Heart lassies, I take it?’

  Rafferty nodded.

  ‘Wondered when you'd get around to fitting it into your busy schedule.’ After unleashing his first volley which revealed with less-than-subtle irony, that he had heard all about Rafferty's work-avoidance schemes, Sam quickly followed through with a second. ‘So the lonely heart gets the Lonely Hearts case. Made for each other, laddie. I bet you thanked your lucky stars you missed the PMs. Lovely muscle tone on that Meredith girl. She obviously kept very fit. She was one of the healthiest corpses I've ever seen. And as for the other lassie, Jenny Warburton, she had as fine a pair of lungs on her as I've ever seen. Obviously–

  ‘Do you have to be quite so coarse, Sam?’

  Sam stared owlishly back at him from behind his glasses and immediately rebuked Rafferty for his assumption. ‘I was about to add, if you'd given me the chance, that she had obviously never smoked in her life. But even if that hadn't been what I'd intended to say, you've no business calling me names, Rafferty. Am I not surrounded by corpses all day, every day? Do you expect me to go about perpetually hung in gloom like some professional Victorian mourner?’

  It would make a pleasant change, thought Rafferty. But even in his present unhappy mood, he recognized he was being unreasonable. Sam was back to his old self – more than his old self – after the death of his wife some months earlier. Then, Sam had certainly resembled a gloom-shrouded professional mourner.

  So, Rafferty concluded, the rumours that Sam Dally was courting were true. It was a bitter pill that even the round and balding Dally could find love, not once, but twice. Sometimes, it seemed to Rafferty, that the whole world was courting or happily paired –except him.

  ‘What do you want, Sam?’ he asked wearily. ‘I've read the reports.’

  ‘Yes, but have you understood ‘em? I know you, Rafferty. How many times is it that I've had to break down the simplest bit of forensic science into words of one syllable for your benefit? Times without number.’

  ‘What is there to understand? I've just seen the bodies. Both victims were killed where they were discovered. Or,’ he added with a savagery that so surprised Dally that he took a step back, pursed his lips and studied him, ‘have you saved some particularly unedifying titbit just for me?’

  ‘Och, you're out of sorts, I can see.’ Sam peered at Rafferty over his wire frames. ‘You should take Sergeant Llewellyn up on his offer to fix you up with a lassie. It's plain to me you're no getting enough of something.’

  How on earth had Sam Dally learned of Dafyd's offer to fix him up with this Abra girl? Surely the discreet Llewellyn hadn't taken up gossiping about his love life behind his back?

  ‘I've been waiting for you to question me as to why Estelle Meredith, the second victim, should have been attacked with much less ferocity than the first victim. But questions came there none. Does it no strike you as curious, man?’

  ‘Of course it does,’ Rafferty replied. ‘But I've not had much time to think about it.’ Truth to tell, after seeing the bodies of the two girls whom he had liked so much, Rafferty was reluctant to think too deeply about anything. He was scared his nightmares would become even more terrifying if he did so. Even before they'd started, he'd been forced by circumstances to put so many of his energies into covering his tracks that he'd had little left over for the investigation.

  ‘I'd make time, if I were you, Rafferty. It could be important.’

  Rafferty nodded dumbly and made to walk away.

  Behind him, Sam pshawed. ‘Och, you're no fun any more, Rafferty. You used to give me a good fight even when you were feeling liverish.’ After telling him he should get a doctor to look at him, Sam stalked away. But he turned back to shout after Rafferty, ‘But don't ask this doctor to give you the once-over. You're giving such a good impression of a walking corpse I might just be tempted to open you up to see if you've finally managed to pickle your liver.’

  Rafferty felt no inclination to rise to Sam's bait. Instead, with a mournful sigh that was as much for himself, the walking corpse as Sam called him, as it was for the real corpses of the two once-pretty girls lying in frozen storage in the mortuary. Rafferty left.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As he drove away from Elmhurst General after seeing the bodies of the two victims, Rafferty told himself the week could surely hold no more anguish. He hadn't reckoned on The Third Estate's contribution, but then he had rather counted on the recent outbreak of murderous gang-warfare between rival asylum seekers in Habberstone, four miles to the west, to hold the front page.

  So it was a shock, when he rounded the corner into Bacon Lane and saw the latest placards outside the newsagents; the Lonely Hearts murders were at last hitting the headlines. And as he slowed to read some of the names the papers’ editors had decided on for the killer: The Beast; Sicko; Psycho; Butcher - he found himself thanking his Guardian Angel that Nigel was no longer a suspect. He prayed his cousin never came back into the frame. Because if he did, Rafferty knew Nigel, who wasn't into such principles as honour amongst thieves or not grassing on kith and kin, would hold back no longer.

  It was a huge relief for Rafferty, when he popped out later to check on the headlines, to see that another, late-breaking tragedy had forced news about the Lonely Hearts murders off the front pages of the nationals. With any luck, Nigel's alibi-providing lady friends would have had little opportunity to see the quickly-supplanted ‘Beast’ headlines and be tempted to retract their statements.

  For once, luck was on his side. It must have been because neither Kylie Smith nor Kayleigh Jenkins contacted him. He had begun to relax a bit when, later than afternoon, Timothy Smales stuck his head round the open door of his office and asked, ‘Can I see you, sir?’

  After the last fraught hours, Rafferty wasn't in the mood for Smales, especially if he had come to have another whinge about the York interviews. In case this had been Smales's intention, Rafferty was curt with him. ‘I don't know Smales. Can you? Or is your eyesight fading, like mine? Never mind,’ he added as Smales blinked uncomprehendingly at him. ‘What do you want, anyway?’

  Smales came in and shut the door behind him with exaggerated care then stood in front of Raffe
rty's desk with an air of barely-suppressed excitement. His down-covered cheeks were rosy-pink, which Rafferty had come to know meant the young officer thought he had learned something vital. He certainly looked full to bursting with something, which served to increase Rafferty's heart rate and feeling of impending doom. And when he learned what it was, he could only stare at the constable, appalled.

  At any other time, Rafferty would have commended the young man standing so triumphantly before him and expecting the praise he thought his due. He would have been pleased Smales was at last showing some maturity and had begun to grow into his chosen career. Only why did he have to choose now, of all times, to start to show some initiative?

  When the praise failed to materialise, Smales at first looked puzzled. But his puzzlement was soon replaced by a return to the sulky schoolboy routine that had accompanied them back from York.

  With a trace of belligerence, he said to Rafferty, ‘I thought you'd be pleased. You're always going on about the need to show initiative. Sir.’

  This ‘sir’ was thrown in as a sop to authority, Rafferty could tell. But if he was to avoid Smales sharing the tale about his unethical conduct in York with the entire nick he would have to ignore the dumb insolence and instead of the stick of reprimand, offer the carrot compliment.

  ‘I am pleased,’ Rafferty told him, through gritted teeth. ‘You've done well, very well.’ Too bloody well, he silently added. Maybe if he'd troubled to soothe Smales's ego earlier, the young officer wouldn't have taken it upon himself to ring both Kylie Smith and Kayleigh Jenkins to recheck their alibis. Of course, during these conversations, Smales had revealed the very thing Rafferty had been at pains to keep from them; that Nigel Blythe had been their main suspect rather than the innocent victim of a targeted burglary as Rafferty had implied.

  As he had feared and as Smales jauntily confirmed, informed of the true situation, the two women hadn't been able to retract their alibis quickly enough.