The Hanging Tree

by Geraldine Evans

  Silence descended again. The only sound was Sheena's voice chattering to her doll. Now, in the silence, Rafferty could make out what she was saying and he wondered how Elizabeth Probyn could bear it as Sheena whispered the same words over and over again, 'Naughty girl to tell such lies. You must be punished. Naughty girl to tell such lies. You must be punished. Naughty girl—'

  'Frank Massey went missing,' he burst out, unable to stand the dreadful repetition. He wanted to get it over with, all of it and get out of this room with its claustrophobia, its misery. 'You remember I told you?'

  'Yes.'

  He hesitated, then it came out in a rush. 'I'm afraid I've bad news. We found him — or rather, a Dutch farmer found him. In his barn.' Again, he hesitated, but then forced himself to go on. 'He'd hanged himself.'

  She didn't seem surprised. 'Poor Frank. Ironic when you think about it. He wanted me to kill our baby, instead my actions have resulted in his death.' Sighing, she added, 'He wasn't strong either mentally or emotionally.' Her gaze rested sadly on the girl. 'I'm afraid Sheena takes after him. He couldn't take prison. I know he had some kind of breakdown. Archie Stubbs made sure I knew that; I suppose he still wanted to punish me.

  'Thankfully, he was unaware of our earlier affair. After he learned that Smith had been murdered Frank was terrified that he might be charged with his killing, might end up in prison again, especially as he had no alibi. He rang me, wanted my reassurance. I did my best to convince him he was safe, that the police would believe him, that no one would think he had anything to do with it. Obviously, he didn't believe me. Perhaps I didn't try hard enough.' Her eyes shadowed. 'Maybe Archie Stubbs wasn’t the only one keen to punish the guilty and I still wanted to hurt him, to punish him for his weakness when I was young, pregnant and frightened.'

  Quickly now, as though she wanted to get it over, she told them the rest. Ellen Kemp, the eldest of the three breakaway RSG women had given birth to her daughter, Jenny, at the same time as the young Elizabeth Osborne had had Sheena. They'd been in adjoining beds and had kept in touch ever since. She told them that, by following Ellen Kemp's daughter's progress, she felt she was following that of her own daughter; the first words, the first steps, the first venture into the wider world.

  ‘When my daughter traced me and told me what had happened to her, I contacted Ellen Kemp for advice, in the hope that her expert counselling might help my daughter. But, after Sheena had encountered Smith for the second time in her life, it was too late, the damage had gone too deep.’

  'It was then that Ms Kemp and her friends sent Smith the “outing” letter?' Rafferty questioned.

  She nodded. 'Though I only learned about that later. I didn't realise they were watching his flat to make sure he didn't escape the punishment Ellen and her friends had decided upon. Ellen was the one watching the flat when I went there that night. She saw Smith open the front door and let me in. Saw me come out again, down the fire escape this time, and guessed, from what I’d told her previously, that it was Smith's body I was struggling to get down the stairs. I'd bought rubbish sacks to cover him; fitting, I thought.

  'Anyway, Ellen told me afterwards that she had assumed I had simply stunned Smith. She followed me, hoping to prevent me doing anything worse. She was too late, of course. I'd already killed him at the flat. The stringing up afterwards was something, like the rubbish sacks, I just felt fitting. Symbolic. By the time she reached Dedman Wood, I had already driven off.

  'Ellen took Smith’s body down and put it in the boot of her car; instinctively she felt she had to hide it. Only, of course, it wasn't her car. It belonged to one of the other women. And when she told them what she had done, they persuaded her to put the body back, without the hood or wrist binding. They panicked, hoped it would be thought Smith had killed himself. Of course, they didn't realise I had stabbed him. I can't imagine they examined him too closely and his dark clothes would have hidden any bloodstains.'

  Rafferty nodded. He had been right. The RSG women had acted exactly as he had outlined to Mary Carmody. The realisation brought little satisfaction. He had been right, too, in the supposition that it had been one of Smith's victims they had helped. Elizabeth Probyn, Ellen Kemp's friend for eighteen years and her daughter's "Aunt Beth", had been as much Smith's victim as any of the raped girls.

  Llewellyn's throat-clearing broke the silence. 'There is one thing — no — two, I don't understand.' She waited expectantly. 'Why he opened the door to you and how you knew his landlady would be out that night.'

  'As for the latter, surely you haven't forgotten my "treasure", my cleaning lady? I learned of the reunion from her. Her mother was going, she told me. She also told me, not once, but a dozen times, the names of her acquaintances who were also to attend the reunion. Mrs Chadden likes to talk. It gives her a perfect excuse to avoid doing any work. And, of course, by then, I'd found out where Smith lived, the name of his landlady and as much about him and his habits as possible. I knew that Thursday would be perfect.'

  'It was you who rang the Social and got his address?' Llewellyn asked and when she nodded, he reminded her of his other query.

  'As far as Smith knew, Sergeant, I was a representative of the law, not a vengeful parent. When he saw me through the spy hole in his front door he didn't see me as a threat. He remembered me from the trial: I still had my old security pass in my maiden name. I showed him that, told him I was researching for a book about men like himself and the raw deal he and other victims of justice had.

  'He swallowed it whole, was pathetically eager to talk. He told me that his stepfather had beaten him up that very evening when he'd gone over there to see him. He was feeling sorry for himself and wanted a sympathetic ear. I did my best to oblige.'

  Rafferty, glad to learn that he had been right, too, about the beating Smith’s stepfather had administered, was only sorry that it was hearsay evidence and inadmissible.

  'So, as I said, I was sympathetic, did my best to gain his trust, just as he had set out to gain my daughter's trust and the trust of those other little girls. It helped that I'm well-spoken. I don't suppose he imagined that a woman with a correct BBC accent would be capable of violence. He got quite chatty.

  ‘Of course, I couldn't afford to let his self-pitying rambles go on too long. I had to get back to the church hall before I was missed. I only had the interval and the last act of the play to accomplish my plan. I couldn't afford to waste time, still, I had to let him talk for a few minutes to gain his confidence. I'd brought a tape recorder with me and set it up on the table in front of his armchair.

  'After a little while he seemed happy just to chat into the microphone, telling me about his grievances, while I wandered round the room. It was how I was able to get behind him. He had no suspicions. None at all. My one regret is that he died too quickly, happily pouring out his complaints into the tape recorder.'

  Her gaze was steady as she met Rafferty's. 'I had to do it, Inspector, you of all people must realise that. You were right about the injustices of the British legal system. I know that now.'

  Her voice was bitter, full of a passion Rafferty had never before heard in her voice. He hadn't believed her capable of such a depth of emotion.

  'The law wouldn't give my daughter justice. I knew that. Who better? Maurice Smith destroyed my child and by that act he also destroyed my belief in the law. Worse, under it all, I was conscious that I was the one who had helped him destroy her, I the one who had failed her. First at her birth, when I was too weak, too scared to stand up to my parents when they insisted on adoption. Then at Smith's trial, when by my own eagerness to make a name for myself I not only deprived those other little girls of justice, but also, unknowingly, convinced my own daughter that her adoptive parents had been right all along. In her mind, if Smith was innocent, then the rape must have been her fault. I knew I had to avenge her. No one else would.'

  Rafferty placed a hand on her shoulder. 'I'm sorry.' The words were, he knew, woefully inadequate.

&
nbsp; She made no reply, just sat, gazing at her daughter. She seemed beyond pain now; like her daughter, she had retreated from the real world. Who could blame her?

  Quickly, he told Llewellyn to summon a nurse. He didn't want to leave her daughter alone. He wanted to reassure Elizabeth Probyn that Sheena would be looked after. But they both knew that this place cost a fortune. Once Elizabeth Probyn's money was gone, her daughter would be moved from this quiet sanctuary to the less-than-sanctified bedlam of a National Health Service general ward.

  He took refuge in silence. When the nurse came, Rafferty took Elizabeth Probyn's arm. Surprisingly, she didn't resist, just kissed her daughter, once, on the forehead, and allowed herself to be led away. Of course, she knew that if she resisted, if she cried or struggled she would only upset the girl.

  She had done her duty as she saw it and in so doing, had destroyed herself. Rafferty had long ago lost belief in the infallibility of the law. But she had believed in it, he knew, believed in it implicitly, even after the Smith case. But then had come the knowledge, the discovery that her own daughter had been one of Smith's victims. It had torn the foundations out of her world. She looked empty, anchorless, beyond reach. He had no choice. He had come this far, he had to go on. As he spoke the words of the caution, he had never hated his job more.

  He may have done his policeman's duty, but in his heart, he still felt he had perpetuated an injustice. What made it worse was that his arrest of Elizabeth Probyn would, after all the sensational coverage Smith's murder had received in the media, mean that the investigation would get a thorough raking over from his large family. He knew they would feel he'd have done better to ignore the clues and let natural justice prevail. He couldn't help thinking they had a point. What, after all, would Elizabeth Probyn's arrest achieve apart from more misery?

  Predictably, he could hear Llewellyn's answer echoing in his head: it removed the stain of suspicion from others involved in the case. He supposed he'd have to be satisfied with that.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was much later that day, after Ellen Kemp and her friends had been brought to the station and charged, when Rafferty and Llewellyn were getting ready to go home, that the phone rang. Rafferty had been prepared to let it ring, but Llewellyn, never one to ignore duty's call, picked it up. The conversation didn't take long.

  'Guess who that was,' he invited Rafferty once he’d put the ‘phone down.

  Rafferty shrugged.

  'Remember our travelling salesman who noted and lost the registration number of the Zephyr?'

  He nodded.

  'He's finally found the piece of paper and surprise, surprise—'

  'It's the same as that on Sinead Fay's car,' Rafferty finished for him. Llewellyn nodded. 'Pity he didn't manage to find it before.'

  'If he had we may well have concentrated our attention more strongly on them and never got beyond the fact of their involvement. If Frank Massey hadn't begun to feel he was our number one suspect and gone missing, we might never have learned about his and Elizabeth Probyn's youthful liaison, you would never have begun to wonder about that liaison, and about the strange limit to the photographs of the daughter that no one seemed to know anything about and what exactly was the matter with her and why.'

  Rafferty wasn't sure he wouldn't have preferred it that way. But he kept the opinion to himself. It wasn't the sort of thing a police inspector should bruit about.

  At least the telephone call had succeeded in breaking the melancholy silence that the discovery of the truth and Elizabeth Probyn's painful confession had brought because Llewellyn went on. 'By the way, thanks for the advice.'

  'Advice?' Rafferty's head began to thump as his hangover returned. Oh God, he thought, I haven't been dishing out more of the stuff, have I?

  He could hardly believe it after all the anxieties the last lot had caused him. Trouble was, he couldn't remember. Half suspicious, half wary, he stared at his sergeant, trying to discern the emotions behind the impassive countenance; never an easy task at the best of times, especially when Llewellyn was indulging his love of irony at his expense. And, in the past, Rafferty's unasked for and carelessly handed out pearls of wisdom had had a painful boomerang tendency that had only served to encourage the Welshman's withering wit. 'All right,' he muttered, 'out with it. What have I done this time?'

  'You advised me to pop the question.'

  Rafferty took a deep breath and asked, 'So what happened?'

  'It was a beautiful night, still and silent, made for poetry, for declarations of love and—'

  'For God's sake, Dafyd, can you cull your inner poet and just tell me what happened!'

  Llewellyn's long face actually split into a grin. 'I asked her. She said yes.'

  Thank God for that, Rafferty thought and breathed a sigh of relief. The next minute, qualms forgotten, he clapped Llewellyn on the back. 'There – what did I tell you? Trust your old Agony Uncle Joseph to know what's what. Now you can start worrying about how much it's all going to cost. First it'll be the engagement ring, then—'

  Llewellyn shook his head. 'Maureen doesn't believe in such things. She—'

  Rafferty held up his hands. 'Don't tell me. She thinks engagement rings are symbols of male oppression, right?' A ring through the nose of 'Daisy' the cow, Rafferty repeated irreverently to himself.

  Llewellyn nodded.

  'Jammy devil. Mind, I wouldn't bet on such luck lasting. Wait till that mother of hers gets to work on her. That woman's got to have something to boast about. Bet you a fiver you end up paying for a stone that Liz Taylor would envy.'

  Before Llewellyn could remind him that he didn’t bet, Rafferty thrust his chair back and pulled on his coat. 'Anyway, you can worry about that later. Now, I think it's time you bought the matchmaker a drink. We'll pop into the Green Man. It's not every day my sergeant gets himself engaged, with or without the ring.'

  It wasn't every day you arrested a Chief Crown Prosecutor either, he reminded himself. He wasn't sure whether the drink for that would be a celebratory one or a drowning of sorrows.

  'So when's the happy day planned?' he asked as they walked out to the car.

  'Not for some time. It doesn't do to rush these things. Though,' Llewellyn gave a faint smile, 'as your mother has bought her hat and has also found me the most wonderful new suit, I don't think we ought to disappoint her too long.'

  'A new suit?' Rafferty queried, as an uneasy memory stirred.

  'Yes, your mother showed it to me after you left last night.' Llewellyn smiled. ‘She asked me not to mention it to you. She said she didn’t have another one to suit you. Perhaps she thought you’d be jealous? But I don’t suppose she’ll mind me mentioning it. Not in the circumstances. Not with you being the one to bring Maureen and me together. And it really is of a marvellous quality. And surprisingly reasonable. Your mother really has got an eye for a bargain.'

  Rafferty gave him a sickly smile. 'Hasn't she though?'

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  AUTHOR BIO

  Geraldine Evans is the author of twenty published novels, including fifteen in the Rafferty and Llewellyn procedural series. Her previous publishers include Macmillan, Severn House, Hale, St Martin’s Press and Worldwide (US).

  She started writing in her twenties, but never finished anything. It was only when she hit the milestone age of thirty that she managed to complete a book. For the next six years she completed a book a year, only the last of which was published. That was her romance, Land of Drea
ms.

  When her follow-up romance was rejected, she felt like murdering someone. So she did. She turned to crime. Dead Before Morning, her first mystery novel and the first book in her Rafferty and Llewellyn mystery series, was taken from Macmillan’s slush pile and published, both in the UK and the US. It was the beginning of a long and successful career as a mystery author.

  Geraldine Evans is a Londoner, but moved to Norfolk in East Anglia, in 2000.

  Other Books By Geraldine Evans

  Rafferty & Llewellyn procedural series

  Kith and Kill #15

  Deadly Reunion #14 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Death Dance #13 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  All the Lonely People #12 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Death Dues #11 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  A Thrust to the Vitals #10 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Blood on the Bones #9 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Love Lies Bleeding #8 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Bad Blood #7 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Dying For You #6 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Absolute Poison #5 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  The Hanging Tree #4 (Orig Pub: Macmillan)

  Death Line #3 (Orig Pub: Macmillan)

  Down Among the Dead Men #2 (Orig Pub: Macmillan)

  Dead Before Morning #1 (Orig Pub: Macmillan)

  Casey & Catt procedural series

  A Killing Karma #2 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Up in Flames #1 (Orig Pub: Severn House)

  Standalones

  International Medical Suspense Novel

  The Egg Factory

  Historical Novel

  Reluctant Queen, (Orig Pub: Hale)