Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  Lancelot Bliss was undoubtedly an actor manqué. The female members of the dating agency, so Rafferty had learned after suggesting Llewellyn ask around, tended to like him and forgave him his vanity. The men, particularly the older ones, generally considered him something of a popinjay, though an amusing one. Perhaps surprisingly, he was considered a first rate doctor, though that might simply be the result of expensive PR.

  Bliss again wore the exquisite fob watch that Rafferty had noticed at the first party. He guessed it was a favourite piece and showy enough to satisfy the doctor for he drew it out and consulted it at regular intervals, either to show it off or to make clear how valuable was his time.

  Rory Gifford, in contrast to the peacock Bliss, had the slightly dishevelled air of having just climbed from his bed and flung on whatever was nearest to hand. But the careless bohemian look suited him. It went well with his gypsy-dark good looks and curly hair. It gave him a devil-may-care appearance that was surely as contrived as Bliss's. They both worked in TV where image was all. It seemed probable that both men had thought long and hard about which image would best suit their purposes: the well-groomed, but friendly and chatty doctor to whom one could tell anything and the rakish, but intense and driven producer whose generally tense posture was meant to be indicative of the creative forces within. Or so Rafferty supposed. Such deliberate image-manipulation always inclined him to wonder what might lie concealed beneath.

  As instructed, Llewellyn opened the interviews. Nothing new was revealed till Llewellyn asked if they now recalled seeing Jenny leave the first party.

  ‘Surely, we don't have to go over all that again?’ Gifford complained. ‘You've already asked me this once and–’

  Lancelot Bliss broke in. ‘You shouldn't complain about the police repeating questions, Rory. It makes you look as if you've got something to hide.’ This brought a scowl from Gifford. ‘Besides, I've been thinking and now I do remember. Strange I didn't recall before really, because we were talking about that estate agent fellow at the time – what was his name?’

  ‘Nigel,’ Rory Gifford supplied. So far, he had contributed little to the conversation. But he didn't get a chance to say anything further as Lancelot Bliss again broke in and took over.

  ‘Nigel. That's right. I remember now. Though a less likely Nigel I've never before met. And that accent.’ Lancelot sniggered.

  Rafferty asked tersely, ‘What was wrong with his accent?’

  ‘Poor chap was trying to do posh,’ Lancelot told him. ‘Made a hopeless fist of it. I thought he'd choke himself trying to elevate his normal voice to something approaching the Queen's when she was a young woman. Remember how unnaturally high-pitched her voice was then?’

  Tight-lipped, Rafferty nodded.

  ‘Way too ambitious of him, of course. Ironic really, because all the real movers and shakers do estuary-speak now in an attempt to mimic the common herd. If he'd stuck with his normal voice we might have believed he was one of us doing estuary-speak for all he was worth. As it was...’

  Suddenly more talkative, Rory Gifford put in, ‘What can you expect? Chap's an estate agent. All sharp suit and sharp practice presumably. I'm surprised Caroline allowed him to sign up with the agency. I mean, I thought it was supposed to cater for the professional classes.’

  Rafferty thought they were being a bit harsh on the accent. He felt he'd done pretty well considering how nervous he'd been. ‘Anyway, you were saying why you noticed when Jenny left the party,’ he prompted Bliss.

  ‘Sorry. Yes. I rather fancied poor Jenny, which is why I was put out when I saw this Nigel, all borrowed suit and plebeian sweat, follow her out. That would have been around 10.00 p m.’ He looked shrewdly at Rafferty before he asked with a casual air, ‘I suppose he's top of your suspect list?’

  ‘Mr Blythe has been questioned, like everyone else at the party,’ Rafferty agreed blandly, determined not to reveal that – as far as the official investigation was concerned, anyway – Nigel Blythe was no longer a suspect. If he did, it might take the doctor's sharp eyes and mind no more than a hop, skip and a jump to realize how closely ‘Nigel's’ features resembled Rafferty's.

  ‘Can't say I'm surprised the man's in the frame for murder. Though I thought, by now, his name and picture would have been made public.’

  ‘We have our routines to go through, sir,’ Rafferty replied woodenly.

  Bliss nodded, but his mind had already moved on. ‘To think I troubled to make conversation with him when all the time he must have been selecting his victim. Doubt you'll need to look any further for your murderer, Inspector. Ralph Dryden was right. This Nigel had a very furtive air, didn't he, Roar?’

  Rory Gifford nodded.

  It sounded as if the three men had been comparing notes. Not that Rafferty could blame them. As he knew to his cost, even the innocent found involvement in a murder inquiry an unpleasant experience.

  ‘What about the night of the second party, sir?’ Llewellyn broke in. ‘Have you had any further thoughts on that which were not in your original statement?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bliss finished his coffee and dumped the mug on the table. ‘I didn't mention that this Nigel chap turned up in the same suit. Same shirt, too, would you believe? Probably couldn't get his better-off friend to lend him another after he'd sweated so heavily into it the previous night. No wonder he was perspiring so freely when you think what he was planning to do. It's clear now I've had time to think about it that he picked out his second victim early on. Not only did he monopolise Estelle Meredith all evening, he went off into the night with her the same as he did with Jenny Warburton.’ He gave Rafferty another shrewd look and added, ‘Yet you haven't arrested him. I can't help but wonder why?’

  Rafferty let him wonder. He breathed a sigh of relief a few minutes later when they left Bliss and Gifford to indulge their speculations. They seemed eager to thrust any guilt onto ‘Nigel's’ hapless shoulders. No doubt it would suit both men nicely. Just as well he had managed to suppress the fact that Nigel no longer had alibis for either night, though it worried him that Bliss, for one, had clearly been surprised that Nigel was still free. He could only hope the doctor's curiosity didn't prompt him to go to the Super. Bradley tended to be a bit starry-eyed about media types and would be likely to trip over in his rush to check and reassure them that Nigel's alibis were kosher.

  ‘I'm beginning to feel rather sorry for Nigel Blythe's impostor,’ Llewellyn commented as they climbed in the car for their next appointment. ‘It sounded as if he was completely out of his depth. If, as the facts indicate, he joined the Made In Heaven crowd with murder in mind, you'd think he'd want to blend in rather than stand out and attract attention. I wonder what could possibly have prompted him to join such an obviously unsuitable agency.’

  It was handy, Rafferty silently answered. He also felt sorry for ‘Nigel’, though that was hardly surprising. ‘Poor bloke's been judged and found guilty just ‘cos he can't do ‘posh’,’ he agreed.

  ‘To be fair, it wasn't just because of that,’ Llewellyn was quick to remind him. ‘There are plenty of witnesses to say that the man masquerading as Nigel Blythe was the person last seen with both victims. It's fortunate for the real Blythe that he's been exonerated.’

  ‘Isn't it?’ Rafferty replied, as, out of Llewellyn's sight, he crossed his fingers and wished it were true.

  ‘I still think it's suspicious that he should be burgled just before the murders and that he should then be so conveniently supplied with alibis. You didn't think there was anything suspicious about those alibis?’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ Rafferty said hastily. ‘The two women who supplied them struck me as honest, reliable witnesses.’ His crossed fingers tightened as he ventured boldly on with a slanted truth. ‘In fact, both of them said they had considered retracting their statements to protect their respective marriages from fallout. Understandable, I suppose when you consider the potential embarrassment of having to stand up in a law court and admit to spending cons
iderable time alone with Nigel in his bedroom’ – even if one of them had been simply admiring his website, as Kylie Smith had originally claimed.

  ‘I suppose so. It's just the coincidence that bothers me. I know how little you like coincidences.’

  ‘I'm happy enough with them when coincidences are all they are, Rafferty assured him. ‘No, the real Blythe's out of it. Accept it.’ Please accept it, Rafferty silently pleaded. Thankfully, Llewellyn said nothing further on the subject.

  Toby Rufford-Lyle, their next appointment, was another of the party guests who lived in some style; a detached house at the leafy end of East Street, which with the spring sunshine lighting all the greenery, looked incredibly lush.

  Rafferty took in the large, double bay windows and the imposing front door made of solid oak as Llewellyn turned into the generous, circular, shrub-lined drive. A sports car in British racing green was visible through the open door of the separate double garage.

  Rafferty watched as Llewellyn the car-buff indulged a brief, slack-jawed drool. Then duty reasserted itself and he joined Rafferty at the front door.

  As Rafferty pressed the buzzer and waited for it to be answered, he mused wistfully on the enviable incomes and lifestyles of his fellow Made In Heaven members, especially the men. Lancelot Bliss, apart from his lucrative TV deal, also had a successful private medical practice. Rory Gifford, he knew, had made a name for himself by making use of his friend's medical knowledge, gift for informative witty one-liners and innate showmanship. And as for Toby Rufford-Lyle – were there any poor barristers, apart from the fictional Rumpole? He had certainly never met any.

  If these were the people whose homes Nigel ran his tape measure over every day it was no wonder he'd sneered so at Rafferty's little flat.

  When no one appeared in answer to his ring, impatiently, Rafferty pressed the buzzer again. It was strange such men couldn't find steady girlfriends. But, Rafferty answered his own unspoken question; perhaps that was the trouble. They could find any number of girlfriends keen to go steady with them; women would be likely to throw themselves at the Toby, Rory and Lancelots of this world. Presumably, that was the reason they had joined the agency. There, they had been assured, they would meet women of their own standing who wouldn't throw themselves at them. Or rather, who might still throw themselves at them, but who would do the throwing for reasons other than money. Ironic that in Isobel, the agency's secretary/receptionist, they had found a world-class gold-digger. No wonder there had been several complaints about her.

  Of the main male suspects only Ralph Dryden's wealth was spurious; worse than spurious. As Llewellyn's inquiries had revealed, Dryden had financially over-extended himself. For all the up-market attractions of the warehouse apartments, they weren't selling quickly enough to resolve some severe cash-flow problems. It seemed that Dryden's myriad business interests were a house of cards – all inter-dependent. Thus far, Dryden's confident exterior had propped up the edifice. But the merest breath of doubt blowing against the walls of the card house risked the collapse of all. Had Dryden feared the precariousness of his business finances was about to be revealed, making a crash inevitable? If Isobel–

  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. Denie
d 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.