Death Dues

by Evans, Geraldine

  Abra would have to be told about the marriage classes, of course. But maybe not yet. She'd specified no religious mumbo jumbo if they were to marry in St Boniface, but surely even she must suspect that the Catholic Church wouldn't marry anyone without religion entering the frame pretty strongly. He'd wait until the wedding arrangements were more settled. She might be in a calmer frame of mind then and more accepting of their necessity. Especially as the longer he left off telling her, the likelihood of finding an alternative venue became even more remote than it was now. He congratulated himself on his good sense as he parked up at the flats. A fait accompli was the way to go.

  ‘I’ve designed and printed out several possible templates for those invitations you asked me to do,’ Llewellyn said the next morning as soon as Rafferty got in. ‘See what you think.’

  Llewellyn handed over three separate cards, each with a different design.

  Rafferty studied them. Two were delicate in silver and blue. The third was in bold primary colours which straightaway attracted Rafferty’s eye. But a wedding day was somehow more the bride’s day than the groom’s, he acknowledged, so he’d leave it to Abra to choose. ‘Thanks Dafyd,’ he said as he pocketed the cards. ‘I’ll let you know which one Abra goes for. You must let me know how much the cards and inks will cost for the full two hundred print run and I’ll reimburse you.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Llewellyn told him. ‘Think of them as an early wedding present.’

  Rafferty was touched. ‘Really? That’s good of you, Daff. Cheers.’ It made him feel bad about not asking Llewellyn to be his best man. Trouble was, he was in a bit of a quandary about it. Should he ask Llewellyn? Part of him wanted to. After all, not only had he been Llewellyn’s best man, but his sergeant had also played matchmaker between himself and Abra and had done a far better job than his Ma, for all her efforts, had ever done. He was also likely to make a better job of the best man role, too, being efficient and organised. But there again, he had two brothers and various friends who would all expect to be asked to do the honours. He couldn’t make up his mind. Whoever he chose, someone would be offended. Several someone’s. Now would be the ideal time to ask him, of course, and he felt awkward that he was unable to do so.

  Still, he was more than pleased to be able to tick yet another wedding expense off on his mental check list. He was doing well. Surprisingly well. So far, he’d managed to organise a free hall for the reception – though, admittedly, that was more his Ma’s doing than his own – bargain priced bouquets and other flowers as well as a free wedding cake courtesy of Dafyd’s mother-in-law. Now he was getting the invitations done for nothing. He just hoped Abra didn’t find out what a cut price wedding she was getting.

  It’s not that I’m mean, he mentally recorded his defence, just in case. It’s just that I don’t want us to start married life deeply in debt. And all for the sake of one day, when they hoped to have a lifetime of days together. ‘Just one thing, Daff. I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention to Abra or anyone else likely to let the cat out of the bag that you’re doing the invitations. I don’t want any of them getting the idea that I’m a cheapskate.’

  Llewellyn’s lips turned up a fraction as he said, ‘Particularly not Abra.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Don’t worry. She won’t hear about it from me.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Chapter Nine

  The day passed slowly, with little more by way of evidence coming in. The team were still checking the CCTV footage, but had yet to sight Forbes’s Mercedes.

  Rafferty, still in pursuit of a honeymoon on the cheap, had been asking around in the station and had found two members of staff with holiday homes abroad. He button-holed one of them by the simple expedient of hanging around reception until his quarry walked through the doors.

  ‘Tom, my old mate, my old mucker,’ Rafferty began. ‘Just the man I wanted to see. Let’s go up to the canteen and have some tea. My treat.’

  Tom Kendall’s thick eyebrows rose. ‘Your treat? What are you after, Joe?’

  ‘Me? Why would I be after anything?’

  Tom just looked at him, but said nothing. They fell into step and soon they were seated on opposite sides of a table in the canteen, tea and sticky buns before them.

  ‘Planning any holidays this year?’ Rafferty enquired disingenuously.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am. Going to my villa in the south of France in August.’

  ‘You’ve got your own villa? How’d you manage that, then?’

  ‘By staying married to the same woman. There’s nothing like divorce for breaking the bank.’

  Rafferty nodded at this piece of wisdom. ‘Must make you a bob or two in the season.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I never let it out. Too much trouble.’

  Rafferty’s lips pursed at this. ‘What? Not even to family and friends?’

  ‘Especially not to them. They’re the worst of the lot. State they left the place in the first year we had it. I swore I’d never let it out again.’

  ‘Seems a shame, though. Think of the money you’re losing.’

  ‘I prefer to think of the hassle I’m saved.’

  Rafferty tried another tack. ‘What about colleagues? Careful, tidy colleagues?’

  Tom laughed. ‘You after a free honeymoon, Joe?’

  Rafferty denied it. ‘I’d be willing to pay to rent it for a couple of weeks.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Careful? Tidy? I think you’re forgetting that I’ve seen the state of your desk and tidy it ain’t. Sorry, Joe, but no can do. You’ll have to find some other mug for your freebie.’

  For now, Rafferty admitted defeat, finished his tea and went back to his office and his murder.

  While they waited on further evidence from various strands of the investigation, Dr Sam “Dilly” Dally had come up trumps. Slow, but thorough, he confirmed over the phone that John “Jaws” Harrison had definitely died in the alley. Half-a-dozen blows had been struck, any one of which could have killed him and caused the brain haemorrhage.

  ‘Someone strong, you reckon, Sam?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘Not necessarily. Just determined. What looks to have been the first blow suggests it was struck by someone shorter than the victim and right handed as I said before. I’ve tried to be more precise on the time of death, but I couldn’t reduce it much. Between three and three-thirty is the best I can do.’

  ‘That’s a help, Sam. Thanks. It agrees with our other evidence.’

  They had had a brief, preliminary talk with all the residents of Primrose Avenue, but with so much to organise at the beginning of another murder investigation, the chats had been too brief for deeper probing. But now, with the different strands of the case begun and with a more definite timescale for the murder, was the time to see if any of the residents had recalled anything relevant.

  Rafferty got out his list and checked down it. ‘For the moment, let’s concentrate on those in Primrose Avenue who owed Malcolm Forbes money. It’s possible some of the other residents with easy access to that alley might have different motives for murdering Harrison, but they’ll take some digging out. By the way, I meant to ask how you’re getting on with decoding Jaws Harrison’s blackmail notebook?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.’ Llewellyn admitted. ‘I’ve been otherwise engaged for the last few evenings on your invitations.’

  ‘Course you have. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ll make a start on it this evening.’

  ‘That’ll be great, Daff. Thanks.’ He reached for his jacket and told Llewellyn, ‘We’ll do number five first, Mr and Mrs Jones and their lodger, Peter Allbright. Might as well try to get three of the suspects out of the way in one go. Give them a bell, will you, Daff and make sure they’re at home. When you’ve done that you can ring the rest on the list and tell them we’ll be round either today or tomorrow .You’ve got all the telephone numbers?’

  Llewellyn nodded. ‘I made sure uni
formed asked for them.’ He reached in his pocket for his notebook where he would have noted them down in his neat and legible hand and picked up the phone.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way.

  Mr and Mrs Harry and Margaret Jones and Peter Allbright, their lodger, were all downstairs awaiting their arrival. The living room was plainly but neatly furnished. It was a tidy room with no evidence of lives lived in the form of books or newspapers or DVDs left out. Other than a selection of family photographs there were no pictures on the walls and few ornaments. Malcolm Forbes hadn’t supplied them with details of the amounts each of his debtors owed, but Rafferty had set Llewellyn to chasing up this information so they knew that the Joneses owed ten grand between them and Allbright owed four.

  The only money coming into the house was Incapacity Benefit for Harry Jones and Job Seeker’s Allowances for Peter Allbright and Dennis, the eldest son, who’d been at the job centre at the time of the murder. The younger boy, Billy, the only one with a wage packet coming in, had been at work and, like his brother, was out of the running.

  With all the Eastern European migrant workers coming into the country and working for lower wages than the indigenous population there were fewer jobs for the unskilled nowadays. The three out-of-work males in the household would be lucky to find any employment locally. It was hardly surprising they’d taken out loans:

  Rafferty knew how low Incapacity Benefit and JSA payments were. They would meet only a few of the household bills. Robbing Peter to pay Paul must be a daily event. Had they also robbed John Jaws Harrison in order to pay the rest?

  Margaret Jones was a tall, languid woman in her mid-forties. She was thin with protuberant blue eyes that suggested she might have an under-active thyroid. Her eyes were so protuberant that Rafferty felt an illogical tingle of anxiety lest they pop out and shoot across the room at him. Harry Jones, by contrast, was fairly short and, even though he was now seated, seemed to exude an excess of energy as though to make up for the lethargy of his wife. It was he who jumped up with the offer of tea. Clearly the kettle had already boiled because he was back in a jiffy with a teapot, five mugs and milk and sugar on a tray.

  Peter Allbright, the Jones’s lodger, sat quietly and unobtrusively in the farthest corner. He seemed to be hoping the armchair would swallow him up so self-effacing did he seem. He took his mug of tea and sat nursing it in front of him as if he hoped it would provide some steamy protection. Even though he was a paying lodger with a right to sit in the living room, he didn’t seem comfortable there. As soon as they’d gone, Rafferty suspected he’d make a bolt for the stairs and his bedroom. Tall and skinny, he was all bony angles with short dark hair and glasses. He looked a bit of a geek with little in the way of social skills and with his prominently knuckled hands knotted together in his lap.

  After taking in this trio of anxious interviewees, Rafferty said, ‘If I can start with you, Mr Jones? I understand you were working in the back garden around the time of the attack?’

  Harry Jones gave a quicksilver nod. ‘Me and Peter. He was giving me a hand to put up some new fencing between us and them students. I managed to get my hands on some cheap wood panels. It had been stop and start with the weather so poor, but I was keen to get it done and we had a fair bit of protection from the wind from the high factory wall.’

  ‘I see. And you told my officers that you never saw Mr Harrison?’

  Briefly, Harry Jones’s gaze strayed in Allbright’s direction before it turned to meet Rafferty’s squarely. ‘That’s right,’ he said firmly. ‘Never saw hide nor hair of him, did we, Peter?’

  Peter Allbright twisted his hands even more tightly together round his mug and shook his head. So far, he’d not uttered a word. Rafferty was beginning to wonder if he was dumb.

  ‘I had the money all ready for him, ours and Peters, behind the clock on the mantelpiece in an envelope,’ Margaret Jones put in from where she was comfortably cushioned on the beige settee, ‘but he didn’t knock at the front, either.’

  ‘Wasn’t that unusual? I understood Mr Harrison came round for his money every Friday afternoon even if the times varied.’

  ‘Yes. It was unusual. I can’t understand it. I’ve already told all this to the other officers. Unless he decided to start his collection at the farthest end of the street and was killed before he reached us, though none of the neighbours saw him either. Not according to Emily Parker. I suppose he must have died before he could collect a penny. It’s the only explanation, don’t you think, Inspector?’

  Rafferty didn’t think it was the only explanation at all. He sipped his tea, then asked, ‘Did you hear any cries? Or anything at all while you were out in the garden?’ he asked the two men.

  ‘No,’ said Harry Jones, while Allbright just shook his head again. ‘But Tracey Stubbs’s kids at number nine were in the garden making their usual racket,’ Harry went on. ‘That family can’t do anything without a lot of shouting and hollering. They’d have masked any cries.’

  This, Rafferty recalled, was one of the houses that were missing a hammer and Margaret Jones had been one of several women who had left the street on some errand before the murder had been reported. Had the men, one or both, killed Harrison and given her the hammer to dispose of under the pretext of popping to the local parade of shops?

  It was certainly a possibility. All three had debts they must have struggled to repay and judging from the few ornaments in the living room, little or nothing worth selling to make the payments. Killing Jaws Harrison and robbing him of the money in his wallet and the cash in his collection pouch would have tided them over for a bit.

  Rafferty had checked out Harrison's collection round with Malcolm Forbes. He'd have collected a tidy sum by the time he reached Primrose Avenue. All the debtors on his rounds were being questioned. He'd considered organising a reconstruction of the man's Friday routine, but he had thought it would reveal nothing further and would cause Superintendent Bradley to scream blue murder at the costs involved, so had put it off for future consideration in the event that they failed to solve the crime in the ensuing few weeks.

  He and Llewellyn questioned the three for several more minutes before Rafferty accepted that none of them was going to be shifted from the stance they’d adopted. It wasn’t a good start.

  ‘Hope we have better luck with the rest,’ Rafferty commented as the door of number five shut behind them. Through the cheap front door, he heard someone, presumably the shy and retiring Allbright, thumping up the stairs. ‘Let’s do the pensioner, Mrs Parker, next. Number thirteen. Then we’ll work our way back down the row.’

  After a bright start, the day had turned overcast. It was raining heavily as they left number five and they hurried up the path and round to Mrs Parker’s front door.

  Emily Parker looked to be in her late sixties. She was a plump woman with arms like hams and inquisitive little eyes that looked as if they’d miss nothing. Unlike Allbright, she was far from dumb and started chatting away at them before they’d got over the step.

  Warned of their visit, she’d taken the trouble to put on some face powder and lipstick. Even her hair looked as if it had been specially brushed just so for the occasion with hairspray liberally applied. The perfume coming from it made Rafferty’s nose twitch.

  Strangely, given the circumstances, she seemed pleased to see them, for she chattered with barely a pause for breath, about the murder and poor John Harrison and wasn’t it a wicked shame and so on, ad infinitum. The kitchen was just off the living room and she continued in this vein all the while she was making tea and bringing the digestives, even though they’d both said they needed nothing. If it wasn’t for his Ma’s pre-knowledge that Emily Parker spent most of her time in the neighbours’ homes, he would have surmised that she was lonely, but, given her dropping-in activities, she could have barely given herself the chance to feel such an emotion. Still, she couldn’t have had much of an outlet for socialising with her only neighbour, the other pensioner,
Jim Jenkins at number eleven. He’d more or less admitted at their first chat that he did his best to avoid her. Given that she’d barely paused for breath since their arrival, Rafferty could hardly blame Jenkins his avoidance of her. The woman’s words came out in such a relentless torrent they were like a physical entity one had to fight against. But eventually, Rafferty managed to force a break in the flow to pose a question.

  ‘See Mr Harrison?’ she repeated. ‘No. I didn’t. It’s very strange. I’ve been talking about it to the neighbours and they all think it odd. I’ve still got my money waiting for him under the clock.’ She nodded over to the unattractive fifties tiled fireplace.

  Emily Parker only owed Forbes a thousand pounds, though presumably, as she was a pensioner, it was enough. According to Forbes’s accounts, she was paying the debt off regularly, though there had been several weeks in the last few months when she had failed to make a payment.

  She must find it a struggle as she admitted she only had her pension. But, like Jim Jenkins, she was of the generation who believed in paying their dues. Though, to judge from the lack of knick knacks, she had perhaps been selling her treasures in order to make the repayments.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Parker, why did you take out a loan,’ Rafferty asked. He thought he might as well get the background.

  She signed. ‘It’s the grandchildren, Inspector. I’ve six of them and it’s so difficult to manage to afford to buy them something nice for their birthdays and for Christmas. It was the eldest’s eighteenth birthday in December. Two of them were born then and another at the beginning of January. All clumped together around Christmas with all its extra expense. Of course I had to get him something nice for such a special birthday. I didn’t have the money, even though I try to put something by out of my pension each month. It was such a worry.’

  ‘You could have applied for a credit card, Mrs Parker,’ Llewellyn put in. ‘The interest would have been less onerous than that which Mr Forbes charges.’