Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  It had been a long day. Rafferty was tired by the time he got back to the station. He had anticipated some peace and quiet while he studied the latest reports and had to bite back the irritation when he saw Llewellyn hovering by his office. He had hoped to avoid Llewellyn's questions for a while longer, but as that hope vanished he led the way into his office.

  ‘I was just about to make a start on the reports,’ he told Llewellyn as they both sat down and before Llewellyn had a chance to question him about his trips to York and Suffolk. ‘But seeing as you're here you might as well tell me if you've found out anything new.’

  ‘Depends what you call new. A number of other witnesses have also now stated that there was something odd about this Nigel Blythe.’

  ‘The supposed Nigel Blythe, you mean.’ Keeping it as brief as possible, Rafferty told him that the real Nigel Blythe's alibis had both held up. ‘What do you mean by ‘odd’, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘The agency clients I've spoken to all said they thought he seemed to be pretending to be something he wasn't. From your discoveries in York it would appear they were correct. For one thing, he wore an extremely expensive suit but it didn't fit him properly.’

  ‘Presumably, if he's the man who burgled the real Nigel Blythe's flat, he helped himself to the suit at the same time as he took Blythe's personal documents. Mr Blythe told me when I spoke to him on the phone that he was missing an expensive designer suit from his wardrobe.’

  Llewellyn nodded. ‘And then there was his accent. It kept changing, apparently. Not that he said much; not to the men anyway. One witness, a Mr Ralph Dryden, actually called the man furtive. He said he seemed reluctant to reveal anything about himself, though several of the other witnesses I spoke to were of the opinion that he seemed keen to get the two victims on their own. They told me he seemed to have plenty to say to them.’

  ‘Mm. What do you make of it?’

  ‘If it wasn't for the facts of the two murders I would have thought him simply someone intent on a bit of social climbing, hoping to find a woman of means to support him. Most of the members of that agency, male and female, hold down high-powered careers with commensurate salaries; highly attractive to a certain kind of man intent on battening on some lonely woman for an easy life.’

  Not the most flattering description of himself Rafferty had ever heard. He forced out another question, ‘And with the facts of the murders?’

  ‘I think we must assume he burgled Nigel Blythe's apartment with the intention of setting himself up with an identity that would enable him to meet and murder women of the professional classes. We must assume that means premeditation; premeditation from a determined and extremely dangerous psychopath. We know from the security arrangements at both venues that – unless we're dealing with a deranged partnership of an agency member with an outsider as you earliest suggested was a possibility – it's unlikely any outsider could have gained access. It leaves us no alternative if we're to launch a manhunt but to check out the tiniest fact about this man. And as he seems to have deliberately targeted Nigel Blythe in his identity theft, Mr Blythe merits further questioning. It seems likely the murderer must have known him in some capacity – maybe he bought a house from Mr Blythe's estate agency? But of one thing I'm certain— there's a connection of some sort. There has to be.’

  Rafferty forced down the bile that had risen from his stomach. This was the conclusion he had most feared Llewellyn would reach. Because if they investigated each of his cousin's known contacts, how could they possibly miss him, or the fact that he had inexplicably failed to mention the relationship at all?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thankfully, by the time Llewellyn returned to the station it was too late in the evening for him to begin checking out Nigel's contacts. At home, Rafferty spent the intervening hours considering what time-consuming task he could give Llewellyn that would leave him unable to make a start on the check. The answer came to him as he mentally reviewed the statements the team had collected during the day. Guy Cranston had said a cabbie had rung through on the intercom some ten minutes after he had seen Nigel leaving the first party with Jenny Warburton, to get him to open the gate. As the supposed Blythe was the only person Cranston recalled leaving around that time, he had presumed Blythe had ordered the cab.

  Rafferty seized on this information with relief. Checking round the local cab firms would keep Llewellyn's sharp mind engaged in a harmless pursuit that would have no chance of leading back to Rafferty's ‘Nigel’.

  The next morning, Rafferty paid a flying visit to the station. He read the latest reports, instructed the team on the tasks he expected them to complete and then, before Llewellyn or anyone else could complain or remind him of the need to check out Nigel Blythe's friends, family and acquaintances, he took off with Mary Carmody for the interviews with Jenny and Estelle's friends and families.

  Rafferty decided he would speak first to Jenny's flat-mate. The flat they had shared was conveniently-situated above a corner tobacconist in Elmhurst's High Street. Being on the corner, it had a double aspect onto the High Street and Penance Way and was both bright and spacious. The furniture was mostly modern, but there was an attractive old roll-top desk and several other older pieces. And as Rafferty guessed from what he had learned about her that these must have been Jenny's choice, he felt the loss of her all over again.

  Grace Thurlow, Jenny Warburton's flat-mate, was a plain girl with a beaky nose and limp, sandy hair that was in need of a wash. Dressed in faded Indian cotton that was as limp as her hair, she seemed an unlikely flat-mate for the beautiful Jenny. Grace's thin lips were down-turned and Rafferty thought it likely the girl's natural expression was a sullen one, but for some reason she exhibited an almost Uriah Heep-like eagerness to please which brought some much-needed colour to her face. At first this puzzled him. But then it struck him that the ungracious Grace, with her oh-so-helpful air, was trying, insidiously, to paint a picture of her late flat-mate as being a young woman of few morals. One who was ‘always out,’ and ‘had lots of different men ringing her up and buying her expensive presents’.

  Jenny hadn't struck Rafferty that way, far from it. He suspected Grace Thurlow had been jealous of pretty Jenny, Jenny with the neat nose, creamy skin and glorious fall of blonde hair, whom men had undoubtedly found far more attractive than they would the Grace Thurlows of this world. The girl would have annoyed him more had it not been for his recognition that like him, Grace Thurlow was alone and lonely and likely to remain so unless she adopted a more positive attitude to life's difficulties. Though when he recalled where adopting a positive attitude had landed him, he wasn't sure he could recommend it.

  ‘That was why I was surprised when you said she had joined this dating agency,’ Grace told them. ‘As I said, she wasn't short of men friends. But then Jenny could be very secretive.’

  Sly, was the undoubted implication inferred. Rafferty hadn't noticed any slyness about Jenny either.

  ‘Maybe she was dating a married man,’ Mary Carmody suggested.

  Grace shook her head. ‘That couldn't be it. Though Jenny dated a lot, she always steered clear of them.’

  Rafferty was surprised that Grace should be honest enough to admit that the immoral Jenny she had painted had some standards. He wondered again how two such dissimilar young women should have become flat-mates and he questioned her about it.

  ‘Jenny's previous flat-mate went off to Australia with a boyfriend for a gap year between leaving university and getting settled in a career,’ Grace explained. ‘And Jenny hadn't got around to organising a replacement. This flat's expensive, so I think she must have begun to find it difficult to pay all the rent herself, so when a mutual acquaintance introduced us and Jenny learned I was looking for a place to live, she asked me to move in. That was six months ago.’

  ‘Can you think of anything in Jenny's life that could make her the target for a murderer?’

  Grace shook her head.

  ‘Did Jenny never mention whe
ther she'd met someone recently, someone who might be stalking her, say?’ He knew he was clutching at shadows, but until he could find the real reason – insane serial killers aside – for Jenny and Estelle's murders, shadows and shadowy theories were all he had.

  And although Grace shook her head, he felt a dart of pure adrenalin when she frowned and added, ‘though, now I think of it, I wonder if she had met someone special because she became rather moony-eyed during the last few weeks before she died and would sit just staring into space with a smile on her face. I asked her if she'd met Mr Right, but she didn't answer me.’

  Harry Simpson had already ascertained that Jenny hadn't confided her secrets to a diary. So who had she shared them with? ‘Did Jenny have any close girlfriends? Someone with whom she might exchange secrets?’

  ‘I told you, Jenny tended to be secretive, not much given to confiding. She told me she hadn't been close to her family since her parents’ divorce five years ago. If she told anyone her secrets, it would be her previous flat-mate.’

  Rafferty obtained the Australian phone number of Alison Curtis, Jenny's ex-flat-mate from Grace before they left. Harry Simpson had already searched Jenny's bedroom and desk for any clues to her murder, but he had found nothing. Rafferty managed to contact Alison Curtis later that day after trying fruitlessly all morning; no doubt, student-like, she had been out enjoying Sydney's night-life. But while her desire to help was sincere, apart from confirming Grace's belief that Jenny had been seeing someone special she was able to tell them little more and could supply no details.

  Like Grace Thurlow, Rafferty found it puzzling that Jenny should have joined a dating agency if she had already found a ‘special’ man. He could only suppose he hadn't turned out to be so special after all. Poor Jenny, he thought. But whether or not the relationship had still been on-going at the time of her death, Rafferty needed to discover the man's identity. And as he and Mary Carmody continued on their busy interview round, he wondered how to achieve this. The man hadn't come forward. He was probably keeping his head down just as Rafferty was; not because he was necessarily guilty of anything, but because he had no desire to get caught up in a murder inquiry. Such natural reticence had Rafferty's sympathy. It was a shame it frequently made the job more difficult.

  It was late by the time Rafferty and Mary Carmody got back to the station. Llewellyn still hadn't returned. Checking out all the local taxi firms had been a longer job than he'd dared hope. But while Rafferty was happy to keep Llewellyn busy on routine enquiries so as to delay his question and answer session with Nigel, he wasn't pleased that his own day had proved fruitless. For all the hours they had put in with the dead girls’ friends and families they had learned little of value. It made Rafferty rather heartsick to think they were getting no further forward in finding the real killer. How much longer could he go on telling lie after lie to protect his cousin and himself?

  Two young women had been brutally slain. Was he being totally selfish, callous even, in concentrating much of his energy in getting himself and his cousin out of their predicament?

  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 findi
ng 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.