Rafferty's thoughts came to an abrupt end as Toby Rufford-Lyle appeared round the side of the house, his thick fair hair tousled and showing an engaging tendency to curl where it met his sweat-flecked neck.
‘Sorry. I was in the garden,’ he said. ‘I like to try to keep the weeds down in case my gardener abandons me to the jungle and decides to retire.’
Toby's figure, though slim and remarkably boyish for his thirty summers, was lithe and tautly muscled beneath his brief shorts and t-shirt. Rafferty wondered if he worked out.
‘Come round,’ Toby invited. ‘It's a warm day and I'm sure you'd like a cold drink.’
As they sat on the terrace at the back of the house, appreciatively sipping what Rufford-Lyle told them were mint juleps, Rafferty let his gaze sweep over the extensive garden. Jungle looked about right, he thought. Although the terrace held a myriad of containers filled with sweet-scented English and French lavender, pinks and more exotic blooms Rafferty was unable to put a name to, the garden proper was so filled with tall trees and shrubs that it was completely secluded. Here, with the birds singing all around, it would be easy to imagine oneself in the depths of the country rather than in a suburban street.
Rafferty turned back to their host just as Llewellyn opened with his, ‘So tell me, Mr Rufford-Lyle–’
‘Oh, call me Toby, please. I have to contend with so much formal ‘Mr Rufford-Lyleing in my work that in my leisure time I like to drop it.’
Rafferty was surprised that Toby R-L should consider answering police questions during a murder inquiry akin to a leisure activity. But then he did work in a Chambers that specialized in criminal law, so must occasionally socialise with policemen. But whether he did or not, Rafferty was sure Llewellyn wouldn't become numbered amongst them; he hadn't even touched his mint julep, so could be relied upon not to take such a light approach. And so it proved.
‘I prefer to keep to formalities, sir,’ Llewellyn told him firmly. ‘I've found it's better that way.’
Toby shrugged off his failed attempt to establish a ‘legal brotherhood’ and leaned back on his wooden garden bench to gaze briefly at the blue sky. He came back to earth to ask, ‘Are you any nearer catching the chap who did these killings?’ His boyish face, which must be an asset in a courtroom, broke into a strained smile as he added, ‘Only my Head of Chambers has somehow got wind that I was there and it's making things really awkward for me. I'm between briefs just now and normally the Clerk would have another waiting, but this time... Well, as you see, I'm enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of free time during the working week. As a barrister it's expected that I only get involved in crime from the right side of the dock. Word's got round and the female staff are starting to avoid me.’ His youthful jaw-line with its suggestion of golden down clenched. ‘It's becoming pretty unpleasant.’
‘I'm sure,’ said a not-unsympathetic-sounding Llewellyn. ‘But it's only by conducting interviews like this one that we'll catch the person concerned.’
‘Quite. Quite. I do understand.’ After glancing briefly at the still silent Rafferty, he invited, ‘Fire away then, Sergeant.’
Llewellyn took him through the questions their earlier interviewees had been asked, but got little of any value in return.
‘I wish I could be more help,’ Toby apologised as he poured himself another refreshing glass from the jug on the table and told Rafferty – who needed no second invitation – to help himself to a refill. ‘I'm usually very observant. I have to be in my line of work. I suppose it's because neither of the victims seemed my type. And then people were milling about all night from the drawing room to the cloakrooms and out onto the terrace. It was difficult to keep track. Of course, one didn't realize one would be a before-the-fact witness to murder.’
‘I understand that, sir. But if anything further should occur to you.’
‘Of course. I'd be only too happy if it did, sergeant. The sooner these murders are cleared up the better I'll like it.’
They left Toby Rufford-Lyle sitting on his sun-dappled terrace under the pleasantly shading umbrella and made their way round to the car, which, by now, resembled an enclosed tropical greenhouse. They wound down the windows and headed back for the station, with Rafferty – who disliked hot weather as much as the Highlands-raised Sam Dally and – for the first part of the journey at least, imploring his determinedly law-abiding sergeant to relent and put his foot down for once so they could get a rush of cooling breeze.
He subsided into sweaty silence as they crossed the river at East Street's western edge. Here the waters of The Tiffey made a lazy curl towards the outskirts of Elmhurst before straightening for the stretch down to Tiffey Meadow and beyond, as if it had finally smelled the sea and was intent on wasting no more time in leisurely meanderings.
Rafferty took the opposite course. Denied a refreshing stiff breeze, he retreated inwardly from the heat and speculated to himself about the case. Isobel's insistence that Estelle Meredith had been on their books for some weeks had been supported by the statements of the rest of the agency work force, as well as by the computer. So why had Estelle lied to him? Was it only because she hadn't wanted him to think her used goods because she had been through the list and was now starting at the top with the new members?
Unless she had some kind of secret agenda, it was the most plausible explanation. But even if Estelle had had a secret agenda, Rafferty couldn't begin to guess what it might be.
And then there was Jenny Warburton. Jenny herself had said the party at the Cranstons’ home had been her first, so, even though they continued to deny she was a member, who – but the agency staff – would know she would be there? Rafferty was about to blurt this out to Llewellyn and he just stopped himself in time, because, of course, this was another piece of ‘Nigel’-knowledge. It hadn't been confirmed by the agency staff, nor could it be till this wretched part-timer deigned to return from her travels. Jenny's name hadn't even been entered in the appointments diary as his ‘Nigel’ had been, though this could be explained by Isobel's inefficiency. Of course Jenny herself had confirmed the party was her first, which brought him back to square one…
This two-identity business was giving him serious problems. It was unfortunate that he had always had a tendency to open his mouth before engaging his brain. Several times he'd started to say something only to remember that he was talking – and remembering – as ‘Nigel’ – about something Rafferty the policeman could not possibly know. It was giving him another headache to add to the throbbing physical one
He was rapidly approaching the stage where he wouldn't dare open his mouth at all in case he let something incriminating slip. But his unnatural reticence had brought its own problem. Several times, especially earlier in the investigation, he'd caught Llewellyn taking furtive glances at him as if he thought he was behaving oddly.
He was, of course. That was the trouble. And he'd have to continue to do so if his tongue wasn't to land him with even more problems. So, now he sat in the passenger seat, lips tight-pursed against any more unwise outpourings and returned to his silent speculation. Where was he? Ah yes, at the fact of the agency staff being the only ones aware Jenny was likely to attend the party. It made every one of them prime suspects, even though they had all denied signing her up at all, which was pretty suspicious in itself. But at least the holidaying part-timer would soon be back, hopefully, she would clear up that particular discrepancy.
Of course, it was still possible that Jenny's and Estelle's murders had both been purely random killings. Rafferty had proved that anyone could join and attend parties before any criminal record could be checked out. As long as they provided a reasonably-matching photo-ID document, which they could beg, steal or borrow as Rafferty had done. After all, he reminded himself, the murders had both been committed during dating agency parties where any psychopath could be certain of finding many young women looking for love. For such a creature it would have been a feast, a veritable banquet of opportunity. Any one of the female m
embers would have been easy meat for a determined psychopath. Such a creature would believe the situation made for him and his base desires. And if these murders were pre-meditated, the killer would have taken appropriate precautions to avoid staining his clothes with the girls’ blood. He could have easily left protective gear conveniently to hand in his car in New Hall's car park or amongst the shrubs in the grounds of The Elmhurst's annexe during a previous visit so it was to hand, and put it on before he indulged his passion for slashing.
Jenny could have just happened to be the unlucky victim – the first to leave and to leave alone and vulnerable and walk to the sheltered side car park.
Anyone at the party could have seen Jenny about to leave alone and hurried out via the terrace to waylay her, thereby missing Rafferty make his way after Jenny via the drawing room door. The same scenario applied to Estelle's murder also. Anyone could have noticed Rafferty depart, leaving Estelle alone on the bench in the annexe grounds.
Such a sadist could have joined the agency with the specific intention of finding vulnerable and lonely young women to kill. A dating agency could be the perfect setting for a psychopath to indulge his desires. Their strengths in appearing normal, indeed often described as ‘charming’, would help them to disarm their chosen victims.
A roomful of women looking for love and possibly with their guard lowered, believing that the agency had diligently checked out their members would be a perfect habitat for a psychopath looking for a ready supply of victims. Dating agencies were first and foremost businesses run for profit. They couldn't afford to wait the weeks and months required for checking out a new signing's bona fides or criminal record. And they didn't. Rafferty had checked out half-a-dozen of the most prominent nationwide dating agencies and none of them went in for such checks so it was unlikely a small independent one would do so.
The thought that the murderer was still free to kill again spurred them on and, after a hurried lunch in the police canteen, they headed back out for the first of the afternoon interviews – with Caroline Durward and Guy Cranston, the two major partners in the agency.
Rafferty was determined they were going to release the names of all their members, past and present, whether they liked it or not. According to Llewellyn, Caroline Durward had complained bitterly about the damage already done to the business. But not, as he had been obliged to remind her via Llewellyn, as much damage as not catching the killer would cause.
Her protests had caved in after that. But there was still some doubt whether they had been provided with every member's details. The agency was as up-market as its literature had claimed. No doubt there would be several extremely important clients whom a protective Caroline had treated with such discretion that they hadn't even been entered in the agency's computer.
Rafferty's head and neck ached with tension. How could it be otherwise when they were now on their way to interview the woman who had more chance than most of recognising ‘Nigel’ behind the hairy mask and glasses. During the half-hour he had sat across a desk from her, Caroline Cranston, nee Durward, had had time in plenty to study him closely. Which was why, once past the congestion at the centre of town – what should have been a pleasant trip via country lanes lined with cow parsley and creeping purple saxifrage, though the small cottage-clustered hamlets of Elmwood and St Botolphe – turned into the trip from hell, with another, all-too-real nightmare possibly looming at the end of it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Cranstons’ home, New Hall, brought back all too poignant memories for Rafferty. And as he stretched his foot over the step where he and Jenny had lingered, he was again savaged by guilt so acute it was like a physical pain. He hurried down the hall after Guy Cranston as if he hoped to escape it, but the pain followed him.
Before they had reached New Hall the unpredictable April weather had suddenly turned from summer to winter. This had prompted the closing of the panelled dividing doors and the lighting of the fire, warmly shuttering the Cranstons in one end of the drawing room. The windows giving on to the terrace were also shut tight.
As was Caroline; Rafferty supposed she had a perfect right to feel aggrieved that her fledgling business could, like Jenny and Estelle, yet become another victim. Fortunately, though she had already vented most of her feelings on Llewellyn, Rafferty was conscious of emotions simmering beneath the outward politeness. Inevitably, this made for a tense atmosphere, which Guy Cranston seemed to feel it his duty to relieve. He wasn't noticeably successful.
After Llewellyn had gone through another round of introductions and routine questions, Rafferty decided to abandon caution and ask the question to which, as Rafferty, he knew only the official answer. ‘Tell me,’ he said as he lowered himself to the faded sofa. ‘Do you vet your clients with the Criminal Records Bureau?’
During his ‘Nigel Blythe’ interview he had agreed to the agency making the check. But this didn't mean they actually bothered to do so. There was still a backlog on these checks and those hoping to work with children took priority.
‘We insist on background checks for all our members,’ Caroline told him in a firm voice that didn't invite argument. ‘Even though we cater for the educated, professional classes, we still need to be able to reassure the less self-assertive female members that they're not going to meet a predatory male.’
‘These checks can take some time, I know,’ said Rafferty. His comment immediately put Caroline on the defensive.
‘Too long. It's extremely inconvenient. But we must protect our members. That has to be our priority.’
Rafferty caught Llewellyn's glance and although the Welshman didn't utter a word, Rafferty could almost hear him say, ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’.
For the moment, he didn't push it, but as Nigel, he had been able to attend a ‘Getting-to-Know-You’ party and had been free to make dates and take telephone numbers as he chose, well before any answers to checks could have been received. It was interesting that Caroline had skirted round the truth. Was she merely protecting what remained of her business and the agency's reputation after the damaging press coverage? Or was she worried that she had let a predatory male loose? Maybe more than one…
Caroline became more defensive as the interview progressed as if the latter was indeed what she feared. She veiled her deceit with excuses. ‘You must appreciate I have a business to run. At least I did, before–’ She faltered for a moment and leaned toward the fire as if suddenly needing the solace of its heat to warm away the fear her business might never recover from the double blow it had received.
Although Rafferty sympathised, it wasn't as if she would be destitute should her business collapse. She had a wealthy husband who was well able to support her. And although Caroline might not have checked her members out, Rafferty had. They had failed to find any convicted violent criminals, though that might be because, if there were such criminals among the agency's members, like Rafferty, they had signed up under names other than their own. But at least the suspects still in the running, although not Persil-white, were mostly without a significant stain on their characters if minor drug busts and occasional drunken violence were discounted. Ralph Dryden had sailed stormy pecuniary waters several times, but always managed to reach the safe harbour of financial probity, though not without the Fraud Squad investigating his business methods. And Lance Bliss, like any successful doctor dealing with rich or neurotic females, had had several complaints of sexual malpractice lodged against him, none of which had held up.
Rory Gifford, though, was more interesting. He seemed to prefer diving in murkier streams. Though he was now the owner of a successful independent production company he had delved deeply in more seamy waters a few years earlier and still liked to make violent porn videos which dealt in images as violent as those captured by the police photographer. The moody, deep, bohemian image he cultivated wasn't merely a thing of surface show; he was deep and dark underneath as well. It made Rafferty wonder whether his taciturn behaviour had been
for a very good reason, the very best reason of all; he had something to hide.
As if aware she had betrayed some culpability earlier, Caroline straightened and went back to defending her position. ‘Potential clients won't wait for weeks for us to receive an answer as to their suitability. Besides,’ she told them, ‘we always warn our members to take sensible precautions. One of the reasons we hold our ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ parties mostly in our own home is so we can watch over our newer members.’
Although Rafferty didn't remind her that such ‘watching-over’ had done little to protect Jenny or Estelle, Caroline caught herself up and glanced at Guy as if seeking his support.
Guy supplied it readily enough. ‘Caroline's right, Inspector. We really do as much as we can to protect our members. Our parties are always held in an enclosed setting, either here or somewhere with good security, like the annexe at The Elmhurst. I don't know what more we can do. We even give new members a list of sensible rules to follow.’
This was certainly the truth, as Rafferty's ‘Nigel’ had received a set of rules along with the map and invitations.
‘But as my wife said, our members are all adults, successful, capable adults at that, rather than gullible teenagers. Educated professionals can be expected to have the sense to safeguard themselves, don't you think?’
Again, Rafferty forbore from the reminder that Jenny and Estelle had both failed in this regard. Instead, he pointed out, ‘But even educated professionals can be vulnerable through loneliness.’ And as Rafferty reminded himself, even though he was a trained copper his state of mind had enabled the killer to make of him yet another victim. ‘For committed psychopaths, there is no protection you can put in place that is going to be one hundred per cent effective. These people will always find their victims. That's the reason I requested access to all your members’ details.’
Dying For You Page 15
