Still keen to charge Bullock with something, on their return, Rafferty sent Lilley out to try again.
'You don't want me to go with him?' Llewellyn asked.
'No. I've got another little job for you,' Rafferty told him. He nodded to Lilley and the young officer went out. 'You're coming with me to see Stubbs and Thompson to find out what alibis they come up with.'
'I thought we'd already concluded that they hadn't—'
'I know we've managed to talk ourselves out of suspecting that they helped Massey,' Rafferty broke in. 'But we haven't done the same if the scenario changes to them acting without Massey. He's not the only one still under suspicion, not by a long chalk.'
'He's the only one to be caught out in a lie,' Llewellyn reminded him.
'Exactly. The only one to be caught. But if the liars and thieves in the population only consisted of those caught out, what a wonderful place the world would be. Come on. Let's get it over with.'
However, it wasn't so easy to catch Stubbs and Thompson out in lies. Prompted either by innocence or canniness, they claimed to have recently discovered a mutual interest in angling and that they had gone night fishing the previous Thursday evening. Although they had no other witnesses but each other to back up their story, instead of telling tall fishermen's tales to add verisimilitude, each was smart enough to say they had caught nothing, thus ensuring that freezers empty of fish didn't weaken their lies.
‘If they were lies,’ Llewellyn had felt obliged to put in as they left Thompson's home after he had backed Stubbs' story.
'Bit of a coincidence that they should both take up such an uncomfortable hobby recently. And in the middle of winter, too,' Rafferty retorted. Although far more favourably disposed towards them than to Bullock, Rafferty couldn't persuade himself to believe them either.
Frustrated by stalemate on several fronts, Rafferty hoped their visit to the Figg family might produce something more than yet another exercise in futility. Unfortunately, even with the assistance of "Curly" Hughes, one of Burleigh's most experienced officers, they had been unable to get the Figgs to shift from their previous dogged stance.
Of course, as Rafferty was aware, families like the Figgs knew how to use the law to their advantage; they'd had plenty of practice at it if what Hughes had told them was anything to go by.
They had finally managed to speak to Tracey Figg. She had turned out to be timid, and, as Rafferty had feared, had not only looked to her father for the answer to each question, but, in general, appeared so cowed that she would have made a hopeless witness even if they succeeded in getting anything valuable out of her. But her parrot-like repetitions of her father's promptings was all they got and, like a cow chewing the cud in a favourite part of the field, she couldn't be shifted from it.
Only nineteen, she already had three children – all with different fathers if the range of skin tones were anything to go by. She had a collection of bruises, too, which to judge by their coloration, were fairly recent. Of course, in a family like the Figgs, who were likely to hit first and ask questions after, if at all, violence was probably a way of life; the bruises didn't necessarily indicate that she had been persuaded to collude in the concealment of murder.
The interviews, like Llewellyn's previous efforts, were conducted in the noisy squalor of the family's living room. And, as Rafferty had prophesied, one of the children had thrown up over Llewellyn's trousers just as Tracey had made her first stumble in the obviously rehearsed tale. And when the nauseous toddler had started up an unearthly wailing which set his siblings and cousins up in sympathy, they had beaten a hasty retreat to the relative peace and freshness of the yard.
Rafferty paused long enough to check if any of the vehicles differed from those which Llewellyn had noted on his previous visit. They didn't. And none of them had been noticed as being parked near Smith's flat on the evening of his murder, either. Not that that proved anything, of course. That was the trouble, Rafferty fretted as he followed Llewellyn and Curly out of the Figgs’ yard. Proof — of anything — was in very short supply.
'I did warn you what they were like,' Llewellyn muttered in aggrieved tones as he dabbed ineffectually at his trousers with a wad of tissues. 'I wouldn't be surprised if they coached those children to vomit to order.'
'Very likely. You must admit it's an effective ploy. That and the bawling got rid of us pretty sharpish.'
Hughes, brought along as the local expert on the Figgs and their tricks, and reduced to red-faced fury when he had proved inadequate to the task, suggested hauling them into the station one by one. After mopping his gleaming bald head, he said, 'We should be able to get 'em for something. If nothing else, those dogs of theirs look vicious. They're sure to have bitten someone.'
Like Llewellyn, Rafferty had had enough of the Figgs. Anyway, given the family’s tendency to violence, he doubted they'd get anyone to come forward even as a witness to the viciousness of the Figgs’ dogs let alone anything else, so he vetoed the plan. 'Didn't you say the sons have a reputation for being handy with knives?'
Curly Hughes nodded.
'Would you like to get on the wrong side of such a tribe? If I was one of their neighbours, I'm damn sure I wouldn't. No. Thanks for the offer, but we'll leave it and concentrate on the Elmhurst end. At least, if the Figgs are involved, any witnesses we turn up there are unlikely to know them or their reputation and would be less likely to be shy at coming forward.'
After dropping Curly Hughes off they made their way back to Elmhurst. At the station, Llewellyn disappeared into the toilets to wash the Figgs from his trousers. Rafferty's rumbling stomach beckoned him to the canteen for a bacon sandwich and a consoling mug of tea. It was there that Llewellyn found him twenty minutes later.
'Carmody just phoned,' he said. 'Bad news, I'm afraid.'
Rafferty grunted, 'That makes a change,' and carried on sipping his tea.
'Frank Massey's gone missing.'
Rafferty's tea slopped over the canteen's chipped table. He'd been complaining that the case had come to a standstill and he wanted something to break, he reflected. But this wasn't quite what he had had in mind. Llewellyn's choice of words penetrated and he demanded sharply. 'You said "missing". You don't mean—?'
'No. He's just missing. An entirely voluntary disappearing act, according to Sergeant Carmody. When he didn't answer her knock, she persuaded his landlady to let her and Hanks into his room. His passport's gone and so have most of his clothes. His car is also missing. No one seems to have seen him since about eight last night when his landlady saw him drive off.'
Rafferty was relieved to learn that even if he'd despatched Carmody and Hanks to collect Massey when they first got the truth from Great Mannleigh nick, it wouldn't have made any difference. Now, at least, he realised why Massey had told them such a stupid, easily disproved lie. It had given him time; time to get away. And that was all he had wanted.
'What about his books?'
'Books?' Llewellyn frowned. 'She made no mention of books. Is it important? If so, I can get her on the radio.'
'It'll keep. It's just that he was a book-lover, like you. They were his escape from reality, if you like. Or, perhaps,' Rafferty corrected, as he recalled some of their titles, 'they were a form of hair-shirt – a constant reminder of the past and his own failures. And if he's left them all behind, maybe it's because he no longer has a need for them in that way.'
'They're symbolic, you mean? That the failures are a thing of the past, not the present.'
'Could be.' Rafferty swallowed the rest of his tea at a gulp, thrust his chair back and strode back to his office. When he got there, he glanced at the wall clock. ‘One o’clock,’ he muttered as he did some swift calculations. 'If Massey left yesterday evening he's had, what? Seventeen hours or so to make good his escape. He could be anywhere. Still, at least his doing a bunk would seem to let his daughter out of the running, wouldn't you say? He'd hardly skedaddle and leave her to face the music alone if she was the one to ki
ll Smith.'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Sergeant Carmody said she spoke to Alice Massey again when they discovered the girl’s father was missing and she now believes Alice had nothing to do with Smith's murder. The girl's mother says they spent that evening playing scrabble and that Alice certainly didn't slip out at all. She was extremely shocked when she realised the reason for Carmody's questions.
'Another point in the girl's favour is that when Sergeant Carmody went back first thing this morning to check the bus and train staff again, no one recognised the descriptions of Alice or her mother. They all swore they didn't see either of them travelling to Elmhurst on Thursday evening, at least. Jaywick's a small place and out of season strangers would be likely to be noticed and remembered.'
Rafferty nodded. Mary Carmody was a good officer. And, even without Frank Massey's disappearance, if she was now convinced that Alice had had nothing to do with the murder, he would have been inclined to trust her judgement. Another point against Alice's involvement, he now realised, was her anger. If she had either killed Smith herself or known that her father had finally avenged her, that anger would surely have subsided? It hadn't. It was still bottled up inside her. One less ball to juggle, Rafferty told himself.
'Do we have any idea how much money Massey had with him?' he now asked.
'Carmody's checking that now.' Llewellyn paused. 'She did learn one thing that might be significant. According to Massey's wife, he and Elizabeth Probyn used to be very close at one time. They were all three at college together, I gather, though in different years. She claims her ex-husband and Elizabeth Probyn had an affair then. The implication being that Ms Probyn might have helped him get away.'
Rafferty frowned. 'I can't see Elizabeth Probyn risking her precious career because of some ancient sentimental attachment between her and Frank Massey.'
'Not so ancient, according to Mrs Massey. She seems to think that her ex-husband and Ms Probyn might recently have become friendly again. If it's true he might have confided his intentions to her.'
Rafferty thought it unlikely and said so. 'Still.' He tapped his pen against his lips. 'We've got to cover all avenues, though I can't say I relish the prospect of questioning our esteemed prosecutor about her love life. How the hell do you tactfully ask her if she's into aiding and abetting murder suspects to do a bunk?'
Llewellyn, aware that Rafferty frequently had trouble in the diplomacy department said, 'Perhaps I should–'
'No.' Rafferty shook his head. As he explained to Llewellyn, he felt he owed her the courtesy of questioning her himself. 'Not that she's likely to appreciate it. What about Mrs Massey herself? I don't suppose she had any idea where he might have gone? Or the daughter?'
'None. Massey said nothing to either of them. And though Mrs Massey didn't have any idea where he might be, according to Carmody, she did express the hope that it was somewhere very warm.'
Rafferty grinned and joked, 'Love, that many splendored thing, hey? Where does it all go? Sounds like she shared my old man's views on holy wedlock; that two hours before you die is time enough to get hitched.' He stopped abruptly, appalled to find himself talking about love with Llewellyn. It was not a sensible move. Llewellyn's next words confirmed it.
'Clever trick to manage,' Llewellyn muttered and added half to himself. 'Maybe I should bear it in mind.'
'No,' Rafferty hastily answered. 'The two hours before you die philosophy is only for cynics like my old man and worn down women like Mrs Massey. You're too young and innocent to follow such a creed. Anyway,' he finished with a forced cheerfulness. 'It's too late. Ma's bought her hat.'
Fortunately, Llewellyn didn't take the opportunity to confide any other thoughts he might have on love, splendored or otherwise. And Rafferty, already hung about with an uneasy feeling that his well-intentioned nose-poking had dragged a divisive Mrs Llewellyn too early into the lovers' embrace, hastily broke the silence before it encouraged such confidences.
'To get back to the task in hand, I want the number of Massey's car circulated. If he's left the country as seems likely, it may be dumped at one of the air or sea ports. Get on to them, Daff. You know the drill. We need to know if Massey has left the country, and if so, where he's headed for. Does he speak any foreign languages, do you know?'
'Only a smattering of schoolboy French, according to his wife.'
'What about family or friends? Any contacts abroad?'
'None. Unless Elizabeth Probyn knows of any. There are the Walkers, of course – the family who emigrated to Australia after their daughter killed herself. Might be worth getting in touch with them, or at least with their local police. Their daughter was another of Smith's victims; an even more tragic victim than the rest. It could create a bond.'
'I'd rather not trouble the Walkers at this stage. They've been through enough. For the moment just let their local police know the situation. Send them a description of Massey and ask them to keep an eye out for any sudden visitors to the house. It's a long shot. I doubt that Massey would be able to find the money to get to the other side of the world, especially at Christmas, when it's high summer and the most expensive time of the year to get there.'
'Unless Elizabeth Probyn helped him.'
Rafferty's eyes narrowed. 'You've changed your tune. Just a few days ago you thought the sun shone out of her—'
'No,' Llewellyn corrected. 'I merely pointed out that she's not the ogre you seem to think her. It's called being impartial.'
'You can call it what you like,' Rafferty butted in. 'I've got another name for it altogether.'
Llewellyn's thin lips became thinner and Rafferty, regretting his taunt, didn't clarify his statement. Instead, he muttered, 'If you'll stop putting the temptation to be otherwise in my path, I'll try to be impartial.'
I'll even try to keep my cool when I question her, he added silently to himself. Though, considering the delicacy of the questions he had to put to her and her likely reaction, he didn't hold out much hope of succeeding.
After flicking through his desk diary and checking Elizabeth Probyn's office number, he dialled and spoke to her secretary. The secretary told him her boss had taken a few days' leave. He shared the news with Llewellyn, adding, 'The secretary suggested I try her at home. She even gave me the number. Funny, I'd have sworn I was on the black list.'
But Elizabeth Probyn wasn't at home, either. Rafferty cocked a hopeful eyebrow at Llewellyn. 'Maybe she's done a bunk with Massey.'
Llewellyn didn't need to bother to point out that Rafferty's impartiality had died a quick death; his expression said it for him. However, he did say he thought it unlikely.
So did Rafferty, but, try as he might, he found it impossible to entirely abandon the fantasy that the ever so correct Elizabeth Probyn had finally blotted her copybook and eloped with one of the criminals she seemed so fond of.
'Didn't her cleaning lady say her daughter's in hospital? She'd hardly take off, if so.'
'I'd forgotten that.' With a regretful sigh, Rafferty put the tattered rags of his fantasy behind him. 'I bet she's at the hospital now.'
He picked up the telephone directory and flicked though till he got St Saviour's, Elmhurst's general hospital. After fighting his way past the switchboard, he got through to Admissions. But they had no record of a Miss Probyn as a patient.
'Probably at some fancy private clinic,' he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. 'I suppose it will wait till she returns home.' Anyway, he realised, the likelihood of her having any involvement in Massey's disappearance was slim at best, and huge quantities of wishful thinking were unlikely to fatten it.
Putting Elizabeth Probyn to the back of his mind, he busied himself with overseeing their enquiries into Massey's whereabouts, checking out the usual mistaken identifications of car and man that such a search always brought.
It was after eight before he gave Elizabeth Probyn another thought. But when he tried her number again, there was still no answer. 'Maybe, she's run off with Massey, after all,' he muttered to hi
mself.
But, true to form, Llewellyn immediately robbed him of such a self-indulgent thought. 'I've just remembered,' he said. 'She's appearing in the Scottish play at the church hall. If you recall she gave me two tickets. I imagine you'll find her there.'
Rafferty nodded. He'd forgotten. Llewellyn had tossed the tickets to him, evidently of the opinion that Rafferty was in greater need of exposure to culture than himself. What had he done with them? He rummaged in his pockets, finally finding them in the lining where they had fallen through a hole and been idly screwed into a ball by fidgety fingers. He smoothed them out. 'Bingo. It's the last night. I'll get along there, then.'
He glanced at the clock. With any luck, he'd catch her in the interval. He hoped so, anyway. He didn't relish having to sit through a great dollop of Shakespeare in order to question her.
Llewellyn, ever keen to encourage Rafferty's limited interest in the arts, suggested he did just that. 'Although they're only an amateur group, they're very good. I saw them last year in their production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Why not stay and watch the play to the end? It is only for a few hours and if Massey turns up you can be back here in a matter of minutes. It's not as if anything else is breaking.'
'You know I'd like nothing better, Daff,' Rafferty hastily assured him. 'But, as Ma says, life shouldn't be given over entirely to the pursuit of pleasure. Duty must come first.'
To forestall any acerbic comment from Llewellyn concerning this previously unsuspected rectitude, Rafferty picked up the mobile phone from his desk, stuffed it in his torn pocket and headed for the door. 'You can contact me on this if anything comes up.'
As Rafferty drove off, he thought about Frank Massey. Things looked black for him, all right. The man was a fool to do a bunk; but was he a guilty fool? The question occupied him all the way to the church hall, which took some time as he hit every red light on the way.
The Hanging Tree Page 17
