The Hanging Tree

by Geraldine Evans

  With downturned lips, Llewellyn surveyed the room: from its leaning tower of yellowing newspapers, to the unmade bed with its soiled grey sheets, to the mismatched crockery piled in the kitchen sink. 'Tidy chap, wasn't he?' he commented, his words revealing that he not only shared Rafferty's distaste for Smith's sluttish housewifery, but also the growing conviction that Smith was dead.

  Rafferty smiled crookedly and advised, 'Just be grateful we remembered our Marigolds,' as he pulled the thin protective gloves from his pocket and put them on. 'And, although this is not yet an official murder investigation, that doesn't mean it mightn't be, soon, so try not to move the dust around too much.'

  They didn't know what they might find here, he reasoned. If Smith was dead, as seemed increasingly likely, given the build-up of evidence, it was possible the flat might yield valuable clues to his murderer's identity.

  There was a battered sideboard against the far wall, and Rafferty made for it, with the unkind thought that it would do his fussy Virgoan sergeant the world of good to plunge his suit and his sensibilities into the newspaper collection of Grub Street's outpourings that Smith seemed to have amassed. Besides, he added to himself in mitigation before his conscience could chime in, the sideboard seemed the most likely place for Smith to keep anything of a personal nature and was therefore the inspector's prerogative.

  Behind him, Llewellyn sneezed as he began to dismantle the pile of newsprint. 'These are all about the court case,' Llewellyn told him shortly, as he held the yellowed Elmhurst Echo of ten years ago at arms' length and began to read from its front page. '"Maurice Smith freed on legal technicality. The Court was in uproar after the Judge's decision to free self-confessed rapist, Maurice Smith. In the public gallery, the crowd were on their feet, shouting, screaming, demanding justice. Outraged, several of the victims' fathers yelled, 'We'll get you, you b —' at the defendant.

  '"In the dock, the defendant's face, shocked when the judge declared the evidence inadmissible, now became positively ashen, his body visibly shaking. He looked terrified. As the police bustled twenty-year-old Smith out of the courtroom, several of the crowd managed to get in the odd punch, the odd kick. The police officers didn't appear to try too hard to stop them."'

  'Maurice Smith's fifteen minutes of fame,' Rafferty commented when Llewellyn paused. 'Mrs Penny gave us the impression he wanted help, hated himself, yet the fact that he kept that pile of newsprint would seem to indicate that his notoriety had fed a fair-sized ego. Makes you wonder.'

  Rafferty eased his back and bent again to his searches. Like the first, the second drawer was stuffed to overflowing with paper. Unsurprisingly, Maurice Smith's correspondents, in the main, seemed to have been the Social. From the timescale of the correspondence it was evident that Smith hadn't had a job since the court case, though, from what Rafferty had since read about him, Smith had seldom held down a job before it either and was apparently inadequate in more ways than the obvious.

  Incredibly, or perhaps not so incredibly, given his amassing of newspapers giving details of the case, Smith had also kept the hate mail that had been directed to his original family home. There were about fifty in a bunch, held together by a thick elastic band. Rafferty flicked through them. In the way of such missives, they were unsigned and contained the usual badly spelled bile. They were well-fingered, in some places split along the folds as though Smith had found a masochistic thrill in reading and re-reading the messages of hate he had spawned.

  Rafferty put the letters to one side, and was just about to push the drawer back in, when he noticed the corner of another piece of paper poking over the back edge of the wood. Pulling the drawer completely out, he put it on the floor before retrieving the paper. This one differed from the rest, he immediately saw. For one thing, the paper looked new, still crisp, still white.

  His heart began to thump as he turned the paper over and saw that someone had taken the trouble to painstakingly cut out letters from a newspaper and stick them down on the sheet. The rest of Smith's hate mail had been either typed or hand written.

  'Dafyd,' he called. 'Come and take a look at this.'

  Llewellyn abandoned his newspaper scavenging with alacrity and came over.

  '"Your identity is known,"' Rafferty read. '"You can hide no longer, your evil deeds will soon be brought to public notice once again. Confess, confess, and admit your crimes. Beg your victims for forgiveness or further action will be taken against you. You have twenty-four hours."' It was unsigned. 'Seems like he was threatened with 'outing',' Rafferty commented.

  'Outing', the practise originally directed by gay-and-proud-of-it activists at closet homosexuals in high-profile positions in society to force them to admit their sexual identity, had recently taken another turn. It was now used against rapists like Smith, who had got off on legal technicalities, and who were either living under aliases for their own protection, or whose names, to protect the identity of their victims, had never been released to the general public. It was suspected the information about the rapists’ whereabouts was supplied by disgruntled police officers.

  Although the more militant elements in women's groups were almost certainly the main proponents of 'outing', they were careful enough to cover their tracks and had never admitted their involvement. Rafferty had often wondered what stopped them, as they would surely welcome the publicity a criminal prosecution would bring to their cause.

  There was a Rape Support Group locally. Rafferty knew Mrs Nye, their spokeswoman personally, and he doubted she would be involved in 'outing' rapists or allow any of her members to do so. Still, someone had attempted it.

  He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and carefully slipped the missive inside. In view of the care the writer had taken to hinder handwriting identification, he thought it unlikely they'd find any fingerprints on it, but if Smith didn't turn up soon, he'd get it checked out by the Document Examiner. He hunted for the envelope the 'outing' letter might have come in and eventually found one that looked a possible. It was in the small wicker wastepaper basket. Plain white, with a first-class stamp, someone had taken the trouble to use a stencil set to write Smith's name and address. He checked the postmark; Tuesday morning, so it had presumably arrived some time on Wednesday. The letter had given Smith twenty-four hours to come clean about what he had done — no wonder he had spent that evening and the next pacing his floor; and now he was not only missing but reported dead. Ironic really, Rafferty thought. After all, Smith had already confessed, all those years ago.

  Rafferty found another couple of bags, one for the envelope and one for the hate mail, then carried on with the search. He was about to return downstairs to ask Mrs Penny if she had known of the letter or if she could confirm by which post it had arrived, when his mobile phone rang. It was Smales. And if Rafferty had ever heard of the warning to be careful for what you wished as your wish might come true, he had no premonition that he was about to learn the truth of the adage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  'Sir? You know that body that was hanging in the woods?'

  Rafferty, warned by the deliberate drama in Smales' voice, pulled the mobile closer to his ear and said sharply, 'What about it?'

  'It's only turned up again, sir. Hanging in Dedman Wood, like before. Lilley is there now, guarding it in case it does another vanishing act.'

  Just like a child on Christmas morning, when Santa had brought him exactly what he'd asked for, Smales could hardly contain his excitement. Rafferty smothered a sigh and reminded himself that Smales was still very young, very inexperienced, and looked even younger than his years, traits which caused some of the women officers, who found his boyish ways endearing, to make a bit of a pet of him. Rafferty, in an attempt to compensate for this smothering, found he had frequently to play the stern father role. It didn't come easily.

  'Try to remember, Smales, that this cadaver – if it's not just a figment of Lilley's eager-beaver imagination – was somebody's loved one.' Unless it was Smith, of course, Rafferty r
eminded himself. Smith; unloved and sure to be unlamented by everyone except his landlady. 'If you concentrate on that thought, you'll find it tends to take the edge off the hormones.' Besides, Rafferty told himself, not very convincingly, the body mightn't even be Smith's. Though the chances of two different cadavers hanging in Dedman Wood in the space of twelve hours was pretty slim.

  There was an embarrassed throat-clearing at the other end of the phone.

  'So what makes you so sure this is the same body? Have you got a confirmed identity?'

  'No doubt about it, guv.' Some of the earlier excitement edged its way back into Smales' voice. 'Lilley got Liz Green to take a copy of Smith's mug-shot out to the woods when the warden told him he'd found a body. It's Maurice Smith, all right.'

  Rafferty silently congratulated Lilley's initiative. Obviously, he had taken to heart his words of warning and was doing his best to impress. However, he changed his mind as Smales's voice ran breathlessly on, and advised that the body was right by where Mrs ffinch-Robinson's cadaver had vanished.

  'Is that so?' Rafferty frowned. 'Lilley was supposed to be guarding the scene of crime,' he snapped. 'So, how come it was the warden, rather than Lilley, who found the body?'

  This time Smales wasn't quite so ready to push his opinions and a deathly silence wafted down the airwaves.

  'Get a touch of the ghostly ghoulies, did he?' Rafferty asked. 'Sat his sentry-go duties out in his car, I suppose?' Rafferty couldn't altogether blame him as he knew his own imagination would have gone into overdrive in the same situation. His gaze settled on Smith's armchair and narrowed. Was he seeing things, or did one of the stains on the back of the armchair look fresher than the rest?

  '..didn't seem likely there'd have been two different bodies hanging in the woods in such a short space of time, sir,' Smales continued to gabble in his ear, repeating his own earlier conclusion. 'Funny thing, though. Lilley told me that last time, the witness claimed the body was bound and had a hood over his head. He has neither this time, though he's still wearing the navy and maroon tracksuit an d—'

  Rafferty broke into Smales's rhetoric. 'Tell me, has he any injuries? A stab wound, for instance?'

  'Funny you should say that, sir.'

  Rafferty smiled at the astonishment in Smales's voice, and guessed his detecting skills had gone up a notch in the young copper's estimation. ‘Just call me Sherlock, son,’ he muttered to himself.

  'He's been stabbed high in the back, according to Lilley. Slap bang through the heart.'

  Rafferty nodded to himself. Although he had no reason to think Lilley an expert on forensic pathology, it was likely he was right. According to his record, Smith was a small, slight man. He couldn't be sure, of course, but it was his guess that the stain and slit in the armchair were exactly where he'd expect to find them if a man of Smith's height had been sitting in it when stabbed through the heart.

  Rafferty, remembering what Mrs Penny had said on the subject, found himself wondering who Smith would have trusted enough to let enter his room? Taking the 'outing' letter in conjunction with the earlier hate mail he had received after the case, he would surely have been even more wary than usual?

  Swiftly, he gave his instructions to Smales. He wanted a team sent to Dedman Wood and another to Smith's room. 'You know what to do to get it organised. Sergeant Llewellyn will wait here for the arrival of the second team.'

  Rafferty thought it probable that Smith had died in his flat but the sooner they knew for certain the better. He decided to postpone questioning Mrs Penny again. For the moment he felt it was more urgent to confirm the cadaver's identity for himself. Besides, he reasoned, if it was Smith, he'd rather question her further when he broke the news to her. 'Has Dr Dally been contacted?'

  'Not yet, sir. Lilley only just called it in.'

  'I'll give him the good news myself,' Rafferty decided. 'Off you go.' He told Llewellyn what had happened, drew his attention to the armchair and told him to point it out to the forensic team when they arrived. Then he dialled Sam Dally’s number. Surprisingly, Sam Dally answered immediately the switchboard put him through. 'You're eager, Sam. Got nothing left to cut up?'

  'Why?' Dally countered. 'Are you volunteering?'

  Rafferty checked his heart. It was still ticking. 'Not yet. I'll get my GP to let you know when I'm ready for the slab.' He paused. 'Got a live one for you.'

  'You mean you're letting me kill the customers as well as cut 'em up now? That should keep me in business till I collect my pension.'

  'A live dead one,' Rafferty corrected himself. 'A swinger, though I doubt the rope killed him as, according to young Lilley, he was stabbed through the heart, and this is his second stringing up.' Quickly Rafferty explained about the earlier episode. 'The troops are on their way. I just thought I'd ring you myself and give you a chance to fill your flask with a warming nip of something. It's bitter out there.'

  'What a thoughtful wee laddie, you are, Rafferty. So, where is it, this swinger?'

  Rafferty told him. 'I'll see you there.'

  The December morning was raw and overcast, and by the time Rafferty arrived, the uniformed branch had stationed officers with torches at strategic points along the lonely, little used lane. Rafferty turned the last corner and before he doused his headlights they picked out Lilley's fair hair and pale face. The young officer, recognising the car, hurried forward. 'It's Smith, sir, I'm sure of it,' he told Rafferty as Rafferty climbed out of the car.

  Rafferty nodded and got into his protective gear as Lilley repeated what Smales had already told him. 'Let's have the mug-shot,' he said. Lilley gave it to him, and, after Rafferty had given his name to the officer recording each arrival, he guided him eagerly along the taped off route.

  Like before, when Lilley had accompanied him to the scene and shown where Mrs ffinch-Robinson had found the body, Rafferty saw that no attempt had been made to conceal it deeper in the wood. It hung from one of the lower branches of a sturdy oak tree, swinging to and fro on the end of the noose, the tracksuit rucked up, exposing the skinny, mottled torso.

  Rafferty gazed at the body impassively for several moments before he raised the photograph that Lilley had supplied. He switched on his torch and compared the two. As Mrs ffinch-Robinson had claimed, the teeth were certainly the same: prominent, yellow and protruding over the bottom lip, one with a little chip missing. The ears, too, as though designer-constructed to match the teeth, also had a tendency to stick out.

  Not a face to inspire love, Rafferty concluded. Nor one likely to incline its owner towards a confident, outgoing nature. With a pang of unexpected sympathy, Rafferty felt that in a society obsessed with good looks such a face was more likely to belong to an introverted misfit; one of society's rejects. Smith had certainly been that, he felt and, as he switched off the torch, he immediately asked himself if he wasn't being too simplistic. There were, after all, few enough beauties in the world of either sex, yet most people, the bat-eared and the goofy included, managed to pair up.

  What was it they said? he asked himself. That emotional involvement was the murderer of good police work. They were right, he knew that. Even so, he still couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor little bastard. Of all the corpses he had seen — and he'd seen a few — he felt this one was in many ways the most pitiful. He could sense, just by looking at him, that Maurice Smith's life had contained little, if any joy; restriction and misery and frustration had undoubtedly been his usual companions; no caring family, no girlfriends, not even money to pay prostitutes; an existence, nothing more. Maybe if someone had done something years earlier, straightened his teeth out, had his ears pinned back, loved him, he might never have done what he did.

  Rafferty realised he was doing it again — letting his emotions get too strong a grip. He reminded himself that Smith had raped little girls. What excuse could there be for that?

  It was eerie in the wood. The trees seemed to loom threateningly and Rafferty told himself not to be ridiculous. The torches gave onl
y a sparse half-light, faintly assisting the grey day, and, above the murmured voices of his colleagues, he could still hear the creaking of the branch under its unaccustomed weight. Although in the gloom, with his own torch switched off, he was unable to make out more than a pale blur where Smith's face was, he could still see it clearly in his mind's eye: the rabbit teeth, the weak chin, the bat ears, the pathetic skinniness of the flesh where the tracksuit top and bottom had parted. He shivered and turned away to let the photographer get on with his work.

  Even the usually black-humoured Sam Dally was affected by the scene when he arrived five minutes later. His first comment as he took in the dangling corpse only served to increase the sense of doom and gloom. '”Though every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.”'

  'I suppose that's one of Llewellyn's borrowed homilies,' Rafferty said.

  Sam nodded. 'Some eighteenth-century bishop, if I remember correctly. Must be a Sixties’ child,' he commented briefly as he studied the corpse, explaining for the benefit of those too young or too slow to appreciate the allusion, 'still swinging.' Nobody laughed.

  After Lance, the photographer, had finished filming the body in situ, a shivering Sam Dally quickly confirmed both stab wound and the extinction of life, and the body was cut down.

  He went through his usual checks with even more speed. As Rafferty had remarked, it was a freezing day, the sky heavy and threatening snow, and none were keen to linger longer than necessary; the pathetic cadaver, its flesh having already been exposed to the elements for some time, had such a chilling effect, physically, mentally, emotionally, that Rafferty felt he would never get warm again, never get that sad, plain face out of his mind, and as soon as Sam had finished ministering to the corpse, he relieved him of his flask and took a reviving nip. Strictly against regulations, of course, but now was not the time to worry about such things.