There were eighteen round the dinner table this year; it was fortunate that his sister, Maggie, lived only a few doors away and had cooked a second turkey and all the trimmings. Fortunate, too, that ma had had the two downstairs rooms knocked into one. As it was, the younger children were seated round a painter's board and trestle. It was covered with a large white linen sheet and made as festive as the table proper with crackers and tinsel garlands and snow-sprayed pine cones that marched across the cloth, stuck down with double-sided Sellotape.
Rafferty smiled. Ma always went to town at Christmas and the tables were a glorious riot of over-the-topness.
As soon as Ma had said Grace, everyone set to with a will. Even Maureen's mother, no doubt given the jollop of something as Ma had threatened, soon became as lively as any of the drunks overnighting in Elmhurst's nick, and began teasing an embarrassed Maureen and recounting such tales of her own courtship days that she had Rafferty's "Uncle" Pat blushing for shame.
The party was still going strong at midnight, the tables pushed back against the wall and the ancient radiogram by now piled with romantic ballads for the close-dancing couples. Ma and Gloria, both widowed for many years, were up dancing with a couple of Ma's gentleman neighbours who had popped in and Rafferty and young Gemma were the only wallflowers.
Even in the now dimmed lighting, he could see that her pretty face was still as unhappy and strained as it had been for most of the day. She had been the first grandchild in the family and had been a bit spoiled by them all. Rafferty, a couple of years out of his teens when she had been born, had fussed over her as much as anyone. Of course, as the rest of the grandchildren arrived, the novelty had worn off. But Gemma remained special to him.
He sighed. And now she was going to be a mother herself. His attempts during the day to try to cheer her up hadn't succeeded. How could they? What did a single, childless man of thirty-eight say to a young girl of sixteen who was soon to be responsible for a new life? But she looked so wretched, that he knew he had to have another try and he made his way through the crush of bodies.
'All right, Moppet?' he asked.
She shrugged.
It was apparent she didn't want to talk. She'd probably listened to enough advice and admonishment to last through a dozen pregnancies as the women of the family thrashed out her future. Instead, he said, 'What do you say we take a twirl and show these shufflers how it should be done?'
That brought a smile as he'd known it would. Gemma had been dance-mad until just lately; ballroom, Latin-American, jive, every time Rafferty had seen her, she'd inveigled him into partnering her, till he'd become pretty adept a dancer himself.
Now, before she could refuse him, he grabbed her hand, shouted, 'Make way for the champions,' and after putting one of Ma's livelier records under the needle, led her into a much-practised jive that cleared the floor and brought a welcome sparkle to Gemma's eyes.
'See,' Rafferty gasped into her ear as the record came to an end and he struggled to regain his breath, 'being a single parent is not the end of the world. You can bring up kids alone and still find time to enjoy yourself. I mean — look at Ma.'
Kitty Rafferty, mother of six, grandmother to twelve, and soon to be a great-grandmother, was now ensconced on the middle of the settee, a gentleman friend on either side of her and flirting like mad with both of them.
Gemma giggled. It was the first time Rafferty had heard her usually infectious giggle all day. Relieved, he put the same record on for a second spin, whirled her around, turned her with a flourish that Nureyev in his heyday would have died for and set off back up the room.
It was much later when Rafferty sought Llewellyn out. By now, emboldened by his success with Gemma and more than his share of Jameson's whiskey, he was ready to put the rest of the world to rights. He followed the Welshman when he went to the bathroom and demanded a few answers. After all he had been put through, he felt he deserved them. He fixed Llewellyn with a bleary-eyed stare and said, 'I don't get it. Your mum's come down, met Maureen, they get on like a house on fire — so why have you been looking as miserable as a doctored poodle all week?'
'Surely you can guess?'
'I wouldn't ask if I could. Come on, out with it, man.'
Llewellyn hesitated. Then he blurted out, 'It's Maureen. She's your cousin. So tell me, how would you go about asking 'Daisy' the cow if she'll consent to your putting a ring through her nose?'
Rafferty gave a shout of laughter, but quickly sobered when he saw Llewellyn was serious. 'You mean you haven't even asked her yet? What the hell have you been doing all this time?'
'Trying to pluck up the courage,' Llewellyn finally confessed. 'A task not made any easier by the fact that both your mother and mine seem to assume that asking her is a mere formality. I even tried seeking your advice several times,' he admitted, 'but each time I tried you seemed to cut me off.' Rafferty shuffled his feet guiltily. 'You know Maureen. She's a woman with very modern, feminist ideas. She may not even want to get married.'
'You must at least have pinned her down to a general opinion on the subject?'
Llewellyn shook his head. 'Not exactly.'
Exasperated, Rafferty exclaimed, 'For God's sake, man, why ever not? Perhaps if you and Maureen had socked old Socrates and his mates into touch once in a while and discussed the basics, you might know where you stood. Maureen's not stupid. Do you think she doesn't know that both your mother and mine have got you married off already? Especially when Ma hasn't stopped teasing the poor girl about wedding bells all day. And then when her mother chimed in about keeping the guest list small and select' – which he guessed meant as few Raffertys as possible — 'I wouldn't have thought she could have much doubt of the way the wind's blowing.'
'I realise that,' Llewellyn retorted. 'But even you must have noticed she looked more embarrassed than pleased about it and immediately changed the subject. What does that tell you?'
'What does that tell me?' Rafferty repeated incredulously, as through his mind, in swift succession, were paraded all the tortures he'd suffered because of Llewellyn's wimpish wooing. That they'd stemmed almost entirely from his own over-active imagination, he disregarded.
'I'll tell you what it tells me.' He realised he was shouting and lowered his voice. 'Has it not occurred to that over-sized intellectual brain of yours that the poor girl was embarrassed — not, as you seem to think — because she doesn't want to marry you, but because you haven't bloody asked her!'
He again dragged his voice down to a loud whisper and demanded, 'What else do you expect her to be when she must think you don't want to marry her? I'd be bloody mortified in her position.'
While Llewellyn absorbed this, Rafferty thrust his advice home with the poke of an index finger in the chest. 'Do everyone a favour, find the courage of your convictions and ask her.' Rafferty's eyes narrowed. 'Or do you expect Maureen to do the asking? Let me tell you something, Mo might be a modern sort of girl with plenty to say for herself on other matters, but on this subject she's likely to be as traditional as my Ma. Besides, it's hardly good for a girl's ego to have to confess to her friends, her workmates, her snotty-nosed mother, for God's sake, that she had to do the asking.'
Rafferty paused for breath, then went on. 'Do you think that mother of hers wouldn't rub her nose in it every time they had a falling out? And Maureen would blame you. Ask her. That's my last word on the subject. Now.' Rafferty removed his body from its doorframe prop, staggered a little and aimed himself at the front door. 'I'm going home.'
As Rafferty drifted off to sleep, Gemma's face kept passing in and out of his dreams. each time, gazing pensively at him from the frame of a photograph. It was as if, in his dream, she was trying to tell him something.
The dream moved on, became tangled up in the lives of the other young girls involved in the case, their emotions, their vulnerabilities. Perhaps it was the combination of those things which set his mind on the correct path at last. But, all at once, in his sleeping state, anyway, he had the answer.
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Of course, it had faded by morning, but certainly, when the phone woke him at seven and groggily, he surfaced from an alcoholic sleep, stretched out a hand and sent the bedside lamp clattering to the floor, he was aware of a vague sense of having dredged up something vital. He shook his head to clear it, winced, finally found the phone and said, 'Ugh?'
He sat up pretty quickly when he absorbed what the voice was saying in his ear. When his head had stopped spinning, he said, 'They're sure it's Massey?'
He listened for a while, asked a few more questions, then hung up. Rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to think. Phone Llewellyn, his brain instructed.
Llewellyn was already up, that much was obvious. He heard Maureen's voice in the background and despite his throbbing head, he managed a grin. 'Been keeping a welcome in that there hillside?' he asked Llewellyn. The Welshman refused to dignify his question with a reply, so Rafferty shrugged and continued. 'Guess what? The station's just been on. Massey's turned up — only trouble is, he's dead. Hanged himself in some Dutch barn.'
'Hanged, you say?'
It was obvious that the method of suicide Massey had chosen had stirred up Llewellyn's suspicions.
Rafferty paused to accommodate them, then continued. 'According to the Dutch police, he's been living rough for the last few days. The farmer said he saw this wild man in the woods near his place and reported it, but the police took their own sweet time in looking into the matter. Unfortunately, in the meantime, Massey must have made up his mind to end it all. The farmer found him early this morning hanging from the beam in his barn.'
'So, apart from the usual mopping-up operations, the investigation's over?'
'What?' Something went click in Rafferty's brain and the dream of the night returned in its entirety. 'No,' he said. 'The poor bastard didn't do it. Massey isn't the one who killed Smith.' That was another poor B entirely, he thought and I'm the poor sap who has to make the arrest.
Already depressed in body by alcohol, the thought depressed his spirit and he wondered again if he was really cut out for police work. 'I think the poor sod was just terrified of being on the receiving end of another piece of injustice. After all, he had no reason to think the law would get it right this time any more than they did last time.
'No,' he repeated, 'Massey didn't do it. I've finally figured out who did.' He paused and crossed his fingers. 'At least I think I have. I've got a few things to check out first. I'll see you at the station in forty minutes and I'll explain then.'
Rafferty replaced the receiver before Llewellyn could ask any more questions and slumped on the bed. Was it his fault that Massey had killed himself? Had he driven an innocent man to suicide? Maybe if he'd been smarter, quicker to work out the clues that had been there all the time, the poor bastard might still be alive.
Slowly, his hand reached out again for the phone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Elmhurst Private Sanatorium might now be called "Green Lawns" and be under different ownership, but as Llewellyn drove through the gates, Rafferty saw that the place looked much the same as he remembered from when it had been the scene of an earlier murder.
The hushed air that, in a noisy modern world, only the wealthy could afford, still hovered over the manicured lawns, their well-nourished lushness emphasised by the light dressing of December snow.
Even the gate-porter to whom they had shown their identification was the same. Rafferty searched his memory for his name. Then it came to him. Gilbert — that was it. From what he knew of the man, he was surprised he still had his job.
After enquiring at the reception desk they were directed down a thickly carpeted corridor to the rear of the Georgian house which accommodated the administrative offices and into the much more recently added wings which contained the private rooms.
Elizabeth Probyn didn't look up when the door opened, but simply went on spooning the breakfast cereal into the girl's mouth, tenderly, carefully, making sure none was spilt. She didn't turn her head when he called her name, but continued to deliver spoon from bowl to mouth as though it were the most important thing in the world to her. It probably was, Rafferty reflected.
A silence took hold, which Rafferty forced himself to break with a careful warning. 'I feel I ought to tell you, Ms Probyn, that we know pretty well everything now.'
Still, she said nothing.
Rafferty had never had occasion to caution a Chief Crown Prosecutor before, though there had been many a time when he'd wanted to, particularly this one. That desire had faded. He'd disliked, resented her, for so long, that the feeling of pity that had replaced such emotions didn't sit comfortably. Still, it was strong and threatened to unman him. He wished he could forget what he knew, what his phone calls had confirmed, sweep it under some wide, grey carpet out of sight of man's justice. But he couldn't. He reminded himself that he had fantasised about arresting this woman. And now — now it was the hardest, most gut-wrenching thing he had ever had to do.
He found his voice again. 'This is your daughter?'
She nodded. 'How did you find out?'
'It was the pictures that led me to the rest.'
'Pictures?'
'The photographs of your daughter in your home. It suddenly struck me you only had pictures of her as a new-born baby and as a young woman, with nothing in between, no photographic tracing of all the stages from toddler to school photographs in her uniform. I wondered why. Then it came to me. You only had early pictures and more recent ones because you hadn't seen her in between. Had no idea what had happened to her in between because she'd been adopted. Only then, when she reached eighteen, she traced you. And you found out what had happened to her: that she'd been Maurice Smith's fifth victim.
'Suddenly, it all made sense; most of it, anyway – the security you had installed and why, your daughter's woman's trouble, emotional and mental rather than physical, the fact that Smith had no qualms about letting his killer into his flat, and the ritual stringing up of his body.'
Her head swivelled and she glanced briefly at him, before turning back to the girl. 'I underestimated you, Inspector. You seem to have worked it out very well.'
'Frank Massey was the father?'
Her bowed head acknowledged it. 'He wanted me to have an abortion. We rowed about it and I didn't see him again till my delayed return to college after the long summer holidays, after the birth, after the adoption. I told him I'd had the abortion he'd been pressing for.' She faltered, went on. 'He still doesn't know he had another daughter.'
Rafferty's breath suddenly quickened as he remembered she didn't know Massey was dead, that now he'd never know about his other daughter.
'I doubt I would ever have told him about her, but then Sheena — my daughter — traced me, wanted to know who her father was, to meet him. Only before I could bring myself to confess the truth to Frank, Sheena met Maurice Smith again. God knows she was a nervy enough girl before that, distraught whenever I had to leave her alone in the house. I hadn't known he had moved to Elmhurst. There was no reason I should, of course, but if I had known, I could have saved her from the trauma of meeting him again. I'd persuaded her to go shopping with the daughter of a friend of mine.'
She took a shaky breath and continued. 'She bumped into Maurice Smith in the town centre. Smith, the beast who raped her when she was a little girl. Sheena had little trouble recognising him: His is the face in her nightmares, after all. She became hysterical and ran home. I was at work, of course. She was alone for hours; refused to answer my friend's pleas that she open the front door. So my friend rang me and I came home. She'd locked herself in the bathroom and we had to break the door down.'
Gently, she pushed the dark hair off her daughter's forehead. 'We found her much as she is now. It was only later, after the doctor had been and sedated her, that I got the full story of what had happened from my friend's daughter.'
She clutched the now empty cereal bowl and gazed at Sheena, who sat cradling a Raggedy-Ann doll in her lap, whi
spering to it in a lisping childlike voice.
'The doctors say she relapsed into childhood. She seems ... happier there.'
Rafferty cautioned her again before she said any more. But she ignored the caution. She seemed to have a need to talk, to make them understand.
'She's my only child. I'd been told after her birth that it was unlikely I could have another baby, so you can imagine my joy when she traced me. Imagine, too, my horror when, shortly after our reunion, she broke down and told me she had been another of Smith's victims. I'd had no idea till then that he'd attacked a fifth young girl.' She raised her eyes to Rafferty's. 'How did you know there had been a fifth victim? I thought no one knew.'
'Stubbs mentioned it. He and Thompson went to see Smith after the trial. He told them then. Of course, even Smith had no idea who the girl was — she was just some little girl with a fiddle. Neither she nor her parents had come forward, there was nothing Stubbs could do. There was no point in mentioning it to anyone, including you. He confirmed when I rang him this morning that you hadn't been told.'
She nodded. 'And you found yourself wondering how I knew there had been a fifth victim.' Suddenly she smiled. 'She's inherited my love of music. Piano's her thing now, rather than the violin, so I bought her the best instrument I could find. I-I hoped we could practise together.' Her voice faltered and the smile faded. 'I doubt we'll ever do that now.'
Tenderly, she again smoothed her daughter's dark hair from her forehead. 'She told me she was coming out of her music lesson when Smith accosted her.'
Again, she faltered for a moment and as she went on, her voice hardened 'Her adoptive parents reacted in the worst possible way when she told them what had happened to her. At first they refused to believe her, told her she was wicked to tell such lies. Even when she recognised his face in the newspapers when he was charged with the rape of the other little girls and finally accepted she hadn't been lying, they refused to come forward, refused to let her speak of it, even. She was made to feel it had been her fault. She said they had told her she was never to tell anyone about it because it was so shameful. Hardly surprising she never got over it.'
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