The Hanging Tree

by Geraldine Evans

  Rafferty, his attitude towards the victim still ambivalent, wasn't sure that wouldn't be the best result. From his understanding of the case, Smith had ruined enough lives; dead, he wouldn't have the chance to ruin more. But, aware that the high-moral ground Welshman would be unlikely to share his opinion, he kept it to himself. Llewellyn believed that, whatever the provocation, no one had the right to take the law into their own hands. Increasingly, these days, Rafferty found his own beliefs wavering. The man, rather than the policeman, thought that ultimately, every human being was responsible for their own survival and that of their family. If parliament and the courts, who were supposed to protect the honest citizen, failed in their responsibility, what was the law-abiding citizen to do? Cower in a corner and let the barbarians do what they liked?

  Society had been overwhelmed by crime in recent years; like a flood tide, it poured over their homes, their schools, their neighbourhoods, tainting every aspect of life. The courts issued what he and many other people considered to be futile punishments to the perpetrators, when they punished them at all. Young criminals, in particular, laughed at the law. Without majesty, dignity and a strong right arm, the law deserved to be laughed at for the joke it had become. Lately, he had often thought that the Old Bailey, the Central Criminal Court, and the prime upholder of the law, should be crowned with "Crime Rools OK" graffiti, rather than the bronze Justice statue.

  With a tired sigh, he forced such thoughts to the back of his mind and asked how Smales had got on.

  'He was unable to get a reply from either Smith or his landlady,' Llewellyn told him. 'And as he was anxious about your warning on discretion, he thought better of asking amongst the neighbours. I told him to return to the station. I hope that's all right?'

  'Yes. It's getting late, too late for banging on doors and disturbing people. We'll go ourselves in the morning. For the moment, I want to keep this low-key. I know Mrs ffinch-Robinson was convinced the corpse was Smith's, but it's possible she made a mistake. Time enough to turn up the volume if Smith has vanished.'

  In spite of his forced optimism, Rafferty wished he could get out of his mind the conviction that the Mrs ffinch-Robinsons of this world were pretty well infallible. Such thoughts were, he felt sure, guaranteed to give him a sleepless night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On Friday morning Rafferty and Llewellyn drove to Maurice Smith's flat. He lived in an Edwardian terraced house, a once-family home that had seen better days and had long been converted to separate dwellings. Smith's home was on the first floor, above the landlady, Mrs Penny's, flat. There was an unlocked outside door, and, inside this, the two flats each had their own doors with letterboxes and secondary bells. Rafferty noticed that Smith's door had a spyhole, an amateur effort which he had probably made himself.

  After getting no answer from Smith, Rafferty tried the landlady's bell. But there was no answer there either and he suggested they have a look round the back.

  A six-foot double wooden gate concealed concrete hard-standing. Rafferty frowned as he saw the lock on the gate had been forced. 'Looks very recent,' he observed as he examined the bright wood around the lock. As well as the broken gate lock, when they walked up the back path they found a few threads of navy cotton clinging to the fire escape. According to Mrs ffinch-Robinson, the corpse she had found had been wearing a navy and maroon tracksuit. After he drew Llewellyn's attention to the threads Rafferty sealed them in a plastic bag without further comment.

  He was beginning to feel he should have posted an officer in Dedman Wood last night to secure the scene. But it was too late for that now and he consoled himself with the thought that there could be few enough people choosing to walk in the woods after dark, particularly in the depths of winter. Anyway, on the way out this morning, he had instructed Lilley to stand guard duty at the scene and with such a belated effort he had to be content. After all, with no corpse, they couldn't be sure they had a murder on their hands and, until they were sure, he didn't want to alert the press by putting a uniform at the scene.

  They found nothing else and came back to the front of the property. Mrs Penny had still not returned, but, determined to get some answers, Rafferty decided they would wait. There was a baker's on the corner and he sent Llewellyn over to get coffee, which they drank sitting in the car.

  The baker's had a three-tiered wedding cake in the window. It turned Rafferty's mind to other things than Smith. Llewellyn had been strongly courting Rafferty's second cousin, Maureen, since the previous April, and, from various remarks that Llewellyn had made, Rafferty had got the impression that an announcement was imminent. But several months had gone by and no announcement had been made. Now, glancing at Llewellyn he asked, 'So, how's the love life? Popped the question yet?'

  Beside him, Llewellyn stiffened. 'We have only known one another for a little over six months, you know. Matrimony is too important a step to rush into.'

  'And faint hearts never won fair lady,' Rafferty reminded him. 'What's the matter? Getting cold feet?'

  Llewellyn said nothing and Rafferty, who would himself like nothing more than a spot of connubial bliss, commented tartly, 'If I know you, you'll be saying the same in six years. You do love each other, I take it?' They'd certainly looked moony-eyed enough to Rafferty on the occasions he'd seen them together.

  Llewellyn forced a 'yes' out.

  'There you are, then.'

  Of course, the Welshman couldn't help being the way he was, Rafferty reminded himself. His background as a Welsh Methodist minister's only son was hardly guaranteed to turn him into a young Lochinvar. What Llewellyn needed was an agony uncle, he decided. Or a boot up the backside. Or both.

  He plumped for the gentle approach. 'So, what seems to be the problem?' he asked, in his best bedside manner. 'You've got heaps in common, you love each other fit to bust. What else is holding you up?'

  Llewellyn hesitated, then confided, 'I want her to go up to Wales with me to meet my mother. Just a short visit, over a weekend.'

  'And Maureen won't go, I take it?'

  Llewellyn nodded glumly. 'She said she has no intention of being paraded around my home village like a prize cow.'

  Rafferty spluttered into his coffee and muttered to himself, 'That sounds like Maureen.' He thought for a moment, then said brightly, 'So, if the prize cow won't go to the cattle show, what you've got to do is hold the show down here and let Daisy parade only for the prospective purchaser rather than the non-spending gawpers.'

  'I wish you wouldn't keep referring to her as—'

  Rafferty held up his hand. 'All right. Sorry. It's a good idea, though, isn't it? Isn't it?' he repeated, when Llewellyn failed to respond.

  'It would be if it didn't have several drawbacks, which was the reason I didn't suggest it. For one, my flat's too small. Of course my mother could stay with Maureen's mother, but— '

  'Exactly – but.'

  Maureen's mother was a difficult woman. No, Rafferty thought, scrub that. She was bloody impossible; all airs and graces and condescension; starched tablecloths and starched pillows cases. Starched knickers, too, probably. 'Your mother wouldn't stay in a hotel, I suppose?'

  'I wouldn't ask it of her. Hotels can be lonely places. And she's lived a very quiet life.' He glanced quickly at Rafferty. 'You'll probably find this amusing, but she still hasn't got a television set.'

  Rafferty didn't find it funny at all. In a sudden burst of generosity, he found himself saying, 'She could stay with Ma. She's got plenty of room.'

  Rafferty, always convinced his ideas were excellent until events proved otherwise, pushed this one with his usual enthusiasm. Ignoring the doubtful look in Llewellyn's eye, he said, 'It's the perfect solution, Daff. They're both widows, both alone, it'd be welcome company for both of them. At least let me put it to Ma.'

  Llewellyn's old-fashioned look made Rafferty re-examine his initial enthusiasm. Perhaps volunteering ma and her best spare room wasn't such an inspired notion, after all? If Llewellyn's childhood had bee
n even half as dreary as Rafferty suspected, his mother must be a dour old biddy, as narrow in outlook as his ma was broad.

  But he realised he had talked Llewellyn into it when the Welshman suddenly asked, 'You're sure Mrs Rafferty won't mind?'

  'Sure I'm sure.' Rafferty swallowed hard and added, 'she'll love it.'

  Rafferty's Ma had taken even more of a proprietary interest in the romance than Rafferty and was well on the way to persuading Llewellyn to convert to Catholicism. Rafferty consoled himself with the thought that it would only be for a week or so. Just while Mrs Llewellyn looked 'Daisy' over. He'd have to ensure he made that clear. 'I'll ask her tonight,' he told Llewellyn. 'And then you can sort the details out between yourselves.'

  It seemed Llewellyn, too, had a few reservations, for he said quickly, 'Perhaps it would be best to make the invitation for after Christmas? I'm sure your mother will be far too busy to want to entertain strangers then.'

  'Good idea.' Christmas at ma's house was normally riotous. Not suitable for an old-fashioned Methodist matron, who was likely to be long on sin and short on forgiveness. Not suitable at all.

  Though, the more Rafferty thought about it, the more he realised there were few periods in the year when the visit wouldn't turn out to be an unmitigated disaster. Why don't I keep my big mouth shut? he asked morosely. It'll all end in tears, I know it will. Probably mine.

  He pushed his gloomy conclusions aside as he saw a comfortably built woman in her seventies walking towards them, a well-filled shopping trolley pushed before her. 'Want to bet that's Smith's landlady?'

  Not being a betting man, Llewellyn didn't take him up on his offer. But Rafferty's guess was borne out when she stopped at the front door and pulled out a key.

  They got out of the car. Rafferty, careful not to startle her, took his warrant card from his pocket and softly called her name. As she turned, he held the card up and slowly approached.

  'We're police officers. You are Mrs Penny?' She nodded and Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn. 'I wonder, could we have a word? It's about your lodger.'

  'About Ma-Martin?' She studied them anxiously before asking, 'Why? Whatever has he done?'

  'He hasn't done anything,' Rafferty hastened to reassure her. At least not lately, he silently amended. 'We just need to speak to him, but as he isn't home ..'

  She hesitated, then said, 'You'd better come in.'

  `Mrs Penny's living room was homely; comfortable, if over-furnished, with masses of family photographs dotted about. Her face creased in anxiety as, after she had sat them down, she said, 'You're sure he's not in any sort of trouble.'

  'No.' Rafferty paused and added, 'that is, not exactly. As I said, we just wanted to speak to him. Actually, one of my officers called round yesterday evening,' Rafferty told her. 'But he could get no reply at either Mr Smithson's flat or yours. Of course, it was rather late.'

  In spite of her obvious anxiety about her lodger, Mrs Penny managed a tiny smile. 'Isn't that always the way? Last night was the first evening I've been out in four months. Went to a WRAF's reunion at a local hotel. It was after midnight before I got home. Haven't had such a good time since I don't know when.'

  The houses on either side were also multi-occupancy, she told them, but their landlords, unlike her, didn't live on the premises and the tenants were mostly young and tended to come and go. She had been widowed two years earlier, and nowadays, she rarely saw anyone unless she went out and, apart from shopping, that happened seldom. 'But here am I forgetting my manners. Let me make some tea.'

  She bustled into the kitchen and was soon plying them with such quantities of tea, home-made sponge cake and biscuits that it wasn't hard to guess the extent of her loneliness.

  As she sat down, Rafferty explained that her lodger had been reported missing. He judged that was the safest way to describe the peculiar events of yesterday. 'There are certain – aspects that warrant further investigation.'

  Her wide brow creased as she returned to his previous answer. 'But who would report him missing? He has no friends, and although he saw his family on Wednesday evening, that's the first time he's seen them in weeks.' Her warm gaze was sad. 'His mother died some years ago and he doesn't really get on with his step-father and half-brother. From odd things he's said, I gather they don't encourage his visits. I don't know why he bothers. Still, I suppose they're the only family he's got. But, in reality, I'm probably the nearest thing he's got to true friend and family both, and I certainly haven't reported him missing.' She eyed them shrewdly. 'So who has?'

  'I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mrs Penny,' Rafferty replied. 'I can only say again that the person who did so is very respectable, very responsible, and wouldn't make such a report without being pretty sure of the facts.'

  Her expression anxious, she told them, 'You know, now you mention it, I haven't heard him at all this morning and he's generally an early riser. Usually, I hear him moving about. Wednesday evening he was pacing up and down as though he had something on his mind; it went on till the early hours. Yesterday evening was the same — at least until I went out. It worried me to leave him all alone when he was so obviously troubled. I had half a mind to stay home after all, but Martin wouldn't hear of it. He wouldn't tell me what was the matter either and I couldn't force him.'

  She sighed heavily. 'And now you tell me he's missing. I do hope he hasn't done anything silly.' Her warm brown gaze rested steadily on Rafferty's face. 'You know his real identity, I take it?'

  Rafferty nodded, surprised that she should be aware of it and still let Smith remain in her home.

  She explained, 'He told me his real identity a couple of months after he moved in. He knew from the Social that I was on the list of those prepared to offer a home to men like him. I suppose he felt he could confide in me.' She sighed again. 'I do wish he'd told me what's been worrying him this last day or two.'

  'You weren't concerned when he told you of his background?' Rafferty asked.

  'I'm seventy-six, Inspector,' she told him calmly. 'An age I thought unlikely to rouse Maurice's anti-social urges. I felt sorry for him. He was – is,' determinedly she corrected herself, as though unwilling to accept the possibility that her lodger might be dead, 'a pretty sad young man; plain, awkward, lacking any social graces. He desperately needed someone to talk to, someone to take an interest in him. I don't think anyone else ever did. Of course, with most people, his appearance and diffident manner went against him.'

  She studied them for a moment, as though weighing them up, before confiding, 'My son had a similar problem to Maurice. My Alan committed suicide when he was twenty-eight because he hated himself so much. No-one seemed able to help him. He served a prison sentence for assaulting one young girl. He had an awful time there and was terrified he would weaken, attack another young girl and get sent back. He was ashamed of what he'd done, but he told me when he got these urges they seemed to take him over.' In her lap, her hands gripped each other tightly. 'I think, in the end, he felt he could no longer cope with all the emotions raging inside him, so — he destroyed himself. He felt it was his only choice. I thought ..' She bit her lip 'I thought I might be able to help Maurice, where I'd failed to help my son, prevent the same thing happening to him as happened to my boy. They can control those sort of sexual compulsions nowadays, can't they? Only – ' she faltered. 'Only nobody seems terribly bothered to do so. I knew Maurice confessed to the police. He expected to be put away, to get help. Only he wasn't and he didn't.' Abruptly, she got up. Rafferty guessed the memories of her son were too painful, too full of self-blame and thoughts of if only for her to wish to dwell on them. 'You'll want the key to his room.'

  'Thank you.' Rafferty paused. 'I gather Maurice Smith's been here about two years now?'

  She nodded and as she handed over the key, asked, 'You won't disturb things too much? Only he'll be upset if I have to tell him you've been going through his things. He can be very secretive.'

  Rafferty reassured her. 'Have you any idea
what he was wearing yesterday evening? It would help our enquiries to know.'

  She nodded. 'He was wearing a navy and maroon tracksuit.'

  Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged glances.

  Mrs Penny hadn't missed the exchange. In a shaky voice, she added, 'He was wearing it when I went up to say goodbye at seven-thirty.' She hurried on as if reluctant to enquire further as to what significance they placed on the tracksuit. He preferred such clothes to shirts and proper trousers. Didn't show the dirt and saved ironing, he said, though I'd have willingly done his laundry for him, and his cleaning, if he'd let me. But, as I said, in many ways he was a very private person and he was wary about getting too close. He didn't like letting anyone in his room; he told me he'd had threats made against him in the past. He always kept his front door on a chain and never released it till he had checked his caller's identity through that spyhole he drilled in his door.' She paused, and, eyes clouding with anxiety, she added, 'The jogging suit should be in his laundry basket. He always went to the laundry on Thursday nights.' Obviously, even without their confirmation, she had concluded for herself that this tracksuit was important, for before turning away, she added, 'I hope you find it.'

  So did Rafferty.

  Rafferty put the key in the lock and opened the door to Maurice Smith's flat. Though 'flat' was a grand name for what was little more than a large bedsit with cubbyhole kitchen and tiny bathroom. Bathroom was another misnomer, as there was no bath, merely a shower cubicle and a grubby toilet. He wondered why Smith hadn't taken Mrs Penny up on her offer to do his cleaning, because it was obvious he didn't trouble with such chores himself. The place was filthy, with the sour odour of unwashed sheets, discarded food and rarely opened windows.

  Rafferty was about to make a derogatory comment on Smith's slovenly housekeeping when a fleeting picture of his own bathroom with its less than sparkling white enamel made him think better of it. But, he persuaded himself, his bathroom did not the man make. Obviously other habits had far more bearing on character. He checked through the laundry basket. Though it had several items of dirty clothing, the navy and maroon tracksuit wasn't amongst them.