‘This Mr Tierney told me he rang Blythe on his mobile to let him know about the burglary and that Blythe was on his way home. I've spoken to him since of course, but I felt I needed to get on top of all the reports before I saw him. If it's true, as he claims, that his passport's been stolen, he's not likely to be going anywhere. But I wanted to wait till your return before questioning him in person.’
Llewellyn looked quietly pleased at this as if Rafferty had just paid him a fulsome compliment. Perhaps he had. ‘The first thing we need to do is find out if Blythe's alibi holds water. If it does, we'd better forget the thought that the answers are going to fall into our laps. If he is telling the truth, this case is still wide open. I'd like you to conduct the interview with Blythe, Dafyd. I'll act the role of silent observer. Maybe, if he is involved in these killings, it'll rattle him.’
The rattling of Jerry/Nigel was not top of Rafferty's agenda. The last thing he wanted was to further upset the cousin who held his future in his greedy estate agent's paws, especially after his earlier threat to ‘drop him in it’. But, scared of what he or his still indignant cousin might inadvertently let slip after finding he was now chief suspect in a double murder investigation, he daren't question him himself. What if he was to call him Jerry by mistake? Letting Llewellyn do the questioning was the safer option as it would also be likely to make cousin Jerry more wary and careful in his answers. Hopefully, the whole procedure would be quickly over. All Jerry had to do was supply the details of the women who he said would alibi him and he'd be home free.
Rafferty took a piece of paper from the file in front of him and handed it to Llewellyn. ‘Give him a ring,’ he said. ‘Let him know we're coming.’ Rafferty had, of course, already forewarned his cousin. ‘It's not as if he can't be expecting us. And as Superintendent Bradley used to be so fond of telling us, politeness costs nothing.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rafferty hadn't seen Jerry since before the Lonely Hearts nightmare began. His stomach curdled at the thought of seeing him now because his cousin's phone-rage over his predicament had been bad enough, but in his increasingly lurid dreams Jerry met him and Llewellyn with an exposé of spittle-flecked fury.
Rafferty handed the car keys to a surprised Llewellyn, got in the car and spent the journey trying to figure out what he could say should his nightmare became reality. But he still had no answer by the time they reached Jerry's apartment building and had been buzzed in. Even Jerry's failure to say anything as he opened the door to his apartment failed to soothe because the hard, accusatory stare he directed at Rafferty spoke volumes and promised more.
But to his surprise, after Jerry had listened with a bored, patrician air that implied his current predicament was tedious beyond belief while Llewellyn made the introductions, his cousin simply turned on his heel and led them into his apartment before he spoke.
‘Really, it's too ridiculous.’ After inviting them to sit down, Jerry, being the new Nigel, remained standing so he could lean the arm of his expensive suit in elegant insouciance in front of what Rafferty knew to be an Italian marble fireplace. ‘I can't begin to take it seriously.’
Rafferty was relieved to hear it. And as Jerry shot his black silk cuffs with their gold, monogrammed cuff links, he conceded that Nigel, Jerry Kelly as was, did bored patrician even better than Isobel Goddard did rich. To distract himself from the worry that Jerry – Nigel – he must make himself think of him as Nigel – would soon tire of his effete aristo game-playing and revert to type, he mused on what piece of aristocratic flummery Nigel would come up with next; his own heraldic device perhaps? Crossed builder's hods and a bar sinister would be the most appropriate for the Kelly family; with a noose over all in remembrance of their several shared ancestors who had taken the long drop.
After having worried himself into nervous exhaustion about their reception, Nigel's play-acting grated on Rafferty. He longed to prick his cousin's posing bubble, but he quickly thrust the temptation away. He needed to keep Nigel sweet. Besides, he should be grateful his cousin not only showed no sign of making good his threat, but that he had used his practiced estate agent charm to such effect that two married women were prepared to put their reputations on the line to provide him with alibis in a double murder investigation.
Languidly, Nigel gave the names and addresses of the women he claimed could alibi him. ‘I think I can say with confidence that these ladies will confirm what I said. You'll find that one or other of them is able to vouch for me over a period of hours on Friday and Saturday evenings, certainly from seven in the evening till around midnight.’ As he laid careful fingers against his Clintonesque coiffure, careful not to disturb its sleek chestnut sweep, he added, ‘Discretion will be called for as these ladies are both married.’
As was Nigel, since, to Rafferty's certain knowledge, his divorce had not yet come through, though Nigel didn't trouble to mention that.
With the alibis now officially supplied, some of the shoulder-shrugging confidence that emanated from Nigel transplanted itself to Rafferty. Freed from the worry that Nigel's alibis might be mere mirages and that his cousin really had no reason, other than spite, to drop him in it, Rafferty felt some of the tension drain away. And as he glanced over at his faux-aristocrat cousin and caught another glimpse of the equally faux-aristocratic cufflinks, he felt a snigger coming on. Because, for Rafferty, who so often seemed to be the one who landed head first in the dung heap, it was rather satisfying that for once, Nigel should find himself in a similar position. Fortunately, he was able to turn the snigger into a coughing fit that had Llewellyn urgently searching out the kitchen for a glass of water. But even as Llewellyn followed Nigel's pointing finger, Rafferty's amusement died a natural death. Because Nigel's trouble was only temporary and was as nothing compared to his own. And once Llewellyn had disappeared from sight, Nigel, clearly not fooled by Rafferty's snigger-turned-cough, took the opportunity to remind him of the fact.
Dropping the air of languid ennui he had adopted on being cast in the role of murder suspect, Nigel reverted to type and hissed in a furious whisper, ‘I don't know what you think you've got to snigger about. In spite of your best efforts, you're the one really in the frame for these murders and don't you forget it, ‘cos I won't. I can prove where I was on both nights, which is more than can be said for you. And at least I can get myself laid without having to sign up with dating agencies under borrowed names and borrowed documents like some poor, desperate, lonely gits I could name.’
Rafferty found it a salutary reminder. His amusement was but a memory by the time Llewellyn returned. Rafferty tossed back the water before he told Nigel, ‘I'll speak to these women, Mr Blythe, and make sure they can verify what you say about your whereabouts. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.’
Nigel, still lounging nonchalantly on the marble mantelpiece, waved a languid hand and murmured, ‘Whatever.’
Scarcely able to believe he was still free of suspicion, Rafferty made for the door as the bored aristo, Jerry Kelly, left them to find their own way out.
Before he drove up to York to interview the providers of Nigel's alibis, Rafferty called the team together in the Incident Room. He looked round at the assembled faces: DC Jonathon Lilley, intelligent and studying hard for his sergeant's exams; PCs Lizzie Green, much the same age as the two dead girls and keen as Lilley to find their murderer and Timothy Smales, still wet behind the ears but now a little older and wiser after getting a few more investigations under his belt, Hanks, DS Mary Carmody and the rest. All were anticipating an announcement that Nigel Blythe was well and truly in the frame and all they had to do was prove his guilt.
Careful to position himself far from the board bearing the witnesses’ photo fit descriptions of ‘Nigel Blythe’, Rafferty took a deep breath, crossed his fingers behind his back and said, ‘It looks like we may not be in for an easy ride after all as Nigel Blythe claims he has alibis. If they check out, we'll need to find the look-alike who stole his identity. Certainly
, the Mr Blythe Sergeant Llewellyn and I spoke to earlier seemed confident of his alibis – isn't that so, Sergeant?’
Llewellyn had been unusually quiet during the return journey. And when Rafferty discovered what had been occupying his mind he was not best pleased.
‘A little bit too confident, perhaps,’ Llewellyn now suggested. ‘I wondered if these alibis might not have been pre-arranged.’
Rafferty had no wish to go down that particular road. But he felt obliged to speak up for his cousin and his alibis. ‘I can't believe that any woman – certainly no one-night-stand as these two would seem to be – would provide a false alibi for a man suspected of two brutal murders.’
Having successfully shot Llewellyn's theory out of the sky, Rafferty waited for the flurry of speculation and moans to die down. Normally, he would have shared the disappointment that the easy solution was replaced by the hard slog of routine; but this time Rafferty was just relieved that he hadn't yet turned into that solution. ‘Accept it,’ he told them. ‘Think of the overtime.’
He ignored the muttered, ‘yeah, and all of the unpaid variety, if I know Bradley,’ which issued from several sets of lips. ‘Too much has been taken for granted already in this case.’ He sent up a silent plea for forgiveness to the sick Harry Simpson who had saved his everything, before he continued. ‘I want every witness, particularly those who were at either party, questioned again.’
This brought more sotto voce grumbles. ‘I know it's a lot of work, a lot of repetition, but it must be done. Before we nail the murderer or murderers we need to be confident that any potential suspect has been rightly eliminated and not just because someone got sloppy in the belief that the case was already in the bag.’
‘Both murders happened in closed-environments, sir,’ Mary Carmody pointed out. ‘The simplest option is to take DNA samples from everyone present.’
‘True,’ Rafferty agreed. ‘I put the idea to Superintendent Bradley, but he wasn't keen.’
Even though the DNA route would probably be less expensive in the long run, ‘Long Pockets’ Bradley had rejected the idea out of hand. The super shared Scrooge's financial outlook and was reluctant to spend money on things that efficient detective work should provide. ‘Maybe he'll reconsider when we've managed to reduce the list of suspects. But to turn from the realms of fantasy to reality, Sergeant Llewellyn has allocated a list of witnesses for each team to re-interview. Timings are going to be vital. Any alibi not substantiated by more than one person must be discounted. It's been known for killers to work in tandem covering for one another, so check and double check.’
As the team took the lists and began to head for the door, Rafferty shouted after them, ‘I shall want the results on my desk first thing in the morning. Smales, you stay here. I've got another job for you.’
Typically, Llewellyn had reserved for Rafferty and himself the list featuring Caroline Durward, Isobel, Farnell, Bliss, Dryden and Gifford. He had sat across a desk from Caroline for the best part of half-an-hour and as the others had also had ample time to study him, they were the ones Rafferty most wanted to avoid – certainly until he had more beard growth and another No 1 haircut.
As the team left the Incident Room Rafferty told Llewellyn, ‘You'll have to re-jig your lists. I've got to go to York to interview Blythe's alibis. You'll be in charge while I'm away. I'll take Smales with me to take notes.’
Whilst Smales grinned broadly at this decision, Llewellyn's features expressed doubt of its wisdom. ‘It'll be good experience for the lad,’ Rafferty insisted before Llewellyn could comment. ‘And then, I think I'd better go down to Suffolk to question Isobel Goddard. See if she had any other reason for taking to her heels. Maybe she saw something that made her take fright.’
Fortunately, unknown to Llewellyn, he had taken the precaution of ringing the agency and when Isobel had answered he had put the phone down without speaking. So he knew she had returned to work, though nobody else knew he knew. It meant he wouldn't encounter Isobel when he drove to her parents’ Suffolk home. Maybe, if Isobel had seen something that prompted flight she would have mentioned it to her family, even if, thus far, she had failed to confide in either Harry Simpson or Rafferty.
It was odd that she should have chosen to return to Elmhurst if she had knowledge that could be dangerous to someone. Of course, he was, as yet, only surmising this was the case. She might, as claimed, have returned to her parents’ home out of fear that a maniac was on a random killing spree.
He would have preferred to question the girl himself, but as Isobel Goddard was one of those he dare not yet encounter, he had no choice but to delegate the interview. When he had so much personally riding on the outcome of the investigation it was frustrating to have to take a back seat.
‘After that, I'll want to see the dead girls’ families – which will need a woman's touch. I'll take Mary Carmody with me for that.’
All that should give him excuse enough to avoid the main witnesses for another day or two. Still worried that Maureen might expose to Llewellyn the family connection to Nigel, Rafferty was anxious to impress on him the need for discretion. He told Smales to change out of his uniform and to wait for him in the car park. When the young officer had left, Rafferty turned to Llewellyn. He was unsure quite how to tackle the issue. Llewellyn could be prickly. But it had to be done. Should Llewellyn mention Nigel's full name to Maureen she would immediately say, ‘Nigel Blythe? If you mean the Nigel Blythe whose original name was Jerry Kelly, then he's my cousin. Mine and Joseph's.’
If Llewellyn learned of the relationship then the chances of someone making the connection between him and the Nigel at the dating agency parties would be far greater. Alarmed by the danger inherent in such a connection,Rafferty felt he had no choice but to remind his sergeant of the need for confidentiality. Expecting Llewellyn's facial landscape to take on the appearance of frozen tundra on which Arctic terns could happily nest, Rafferty was astonished, once he'd stumbled through his awkward reminder, when Llewellyn's expression remained pleasingly temperate and his only comment was mild.
‘I hope I've always respected the confidential nature of the work we do. I'm not the type of officer who returns home after work and bandies suspects’ names about over the anti-pasta. I thought you knew that.’
‘Well yes, of course, I do. It's just that with a new wife, pillow-talk – that kind of thing,’ Rafferty tailed off lamely.
‘Pillow-talk?’ Llewellyn repeated. He sounded more amused than offended. ‘You can rest assured, Sir, I don't do ‘pillow-talk’ about work matters. Maureen and I have many shared interests, but murder isn't one of them.’
Rafferty was glad to hear it. He managed a muttered, ‘That's all right, then,’ before he hurried off to find Timothy Smales in the car park.
Rafferty's journey up to York with Smales was uneventful. It was fortunate that he'd been able to ‘borrow’ Smales from uniform. A more experienced officer would certainly question Rafferty's determination to speak to the women alone. But Smales, being still apprentice-green, could, without argument, be despatched on tea-seeking duties or some such. He hadn't even expressed astonishment when told he could drive, but had simply taken the car keys with alacrity, as if scared Rafferty might change his mind. But as Rafferty told himself as he eased into the passenger seat, even Smales's driving had to be safer than his spectacled efforts. And it was less likely to wrap the car round a lamp post.
And when, some hours later, as they pulled up in the hotel forecourt of the modern concrete and glass architectural monstrosity that was the four star House of York, the hotel where the two women had agreed to meet him – being understandably reluctant to have him come to their homes – Rafferty began to believe the fates had relented and would treat him kindly.
For once, this optimistic belief wasn't disappointed. But then he had decided to help it along a little. His assurance that Nigel was an innocent whose identity had been stolen encouraged both women to back up Nigel's alibis. He had downplay
ed deliberately, certain that if they learned otherwise both women would retract. But his reassurance gave them confidence that their husbands would never discover how faithless they were. It had been a masterstroke.
He had interviewed each woman separately. Kylie Smith, all bleached blonde curls and short, hot pink skirt suit – for all his high pretensions, in his love-life Nigel had reverted to type – seemed unable to speak in anything other than the clichéd phrases of the born estate agent and when Rafferty had pressed her for firm answers, she had done her best to convince him that her and Nigel's little liaison had been completely innocent.
‘Nigel and I did have a little drinkette, Inspector after dinner on the Saturday night. And although I admit I went up with him to his splendidly proportioned bedroom and we were there till almost midnight, it was only to look at his laptop and see how his property agency has designed their website.’
‘Come and look at my website’ must be the modern version of inviting a girl to look at one's etchings, Rafferty reflected. He'd have expected Nigel to have a more original chat-up line. But whatever his cousin lacked in originality was more-than-made-up for by his choice of one-night-stands. And as Rafferty realized that, as with Kayleigh Jenkins, Nigel's other alibi supplier, the time-scale Kylie Smith mentioned made it impossible for Nigel to have returned to Elmhurst to commit murder, he sent up a silent thank you. Because as he pocketed the two hand-written statements, he knew that Nigel was officially off the suspect list.
Fearing that even the bashful Smales would by now have managed to attract the attention of one of the four-star hotel's supercilious waitresses, place the tea order and return to make the astonishing discovery that Nigel Blythe wasn't at the top of their suspect list at all, Rafferty hastily drew the second interview to a close. With effusive thanks for her time, he ushered Kylie Smith from the room and went in search of Smales.
Dying For You Page 29
