Death Dues

by Evans, Geraldine

  Danny gazed speculatively at Rafferty. ‘Would it be worth something, like? If I did see him?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Maybe Forbes would offer a reward, though Rafferty couldn’t see it. Still, he was all for offering witnesses the occasional carrot.

  Superintendent Bradley hadn’t seen fit to make inroads into his budget in order to offer a reward. And it seemed that Danny knew this from the neighbourhood grapevine. Now, from the sceptical look in his not-so-innocent eyes, it seemed likely that Danny had also dismissed Forbes as a potential money tree. His next words confirmed it.

  ‘Nah. I never saw him then.’

  ‘You’re sure? It could be important, Danny.’

  ‘Course I’m sure. I’d have remembered if I’d seen him. He’d have been the chief suspect, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe. One of them, anyway.’ Rafferty stood up. ‘Thanks Danny. You’ve been very helpful.’ Helpful to himself, anyway, if not the police. Was the little tyke thinking of putting the bite on Billy Harris? Rafferty wondered. Had he seen Billy climb over from the factory just before Jaws Harrison’s estimated time of death?

  Danny shrugged as if helping the police was all in a day’s work to him. ‘Can I go back to my computer game now?’

  Rafferty nodded. As the boy rushed from the room, Rafferty turned to Tracey and thanked her before he and Llewellyn left.

  Billy Jones would still be at work at the factory. However, Rafferty didn’t want to question the boy at his place of work and embarrass him in front of his workmates. He’d wait till Jones arrived home and question him there. Depending on what he said, they could check out his story with his supervisor later.

  Meanwhile, the questioning in the neighbourhood was still on-going; there would be more statements to be read and digested, so they returned to the station.

  The forensic results on the mugging of Izzy Barber were waiting for them on their return. They’d come back more speedily than Rafferty had expected. The results proved what he had hoped: Barber’s blood had been found on two of the youths’ trainers – those of Jake Sterling and Des Arnott. As he said to Llewellyn, ‘Let them try to “no comment” their way out of that.’

  Billy Jones was at home when they called at the house at six o’clock. At first, he looked set to deny any wall-climbing activities, but when told they had a witness, he changed his mind and admitted it.

  ‘It’s not a crime,’ he told them forcefully, his ruddy complexion becoming a little redder as he said it.

  ‘Not a crime, no,’ Rafferty agreed. ‘But for one thing, your employer might have something to say to you about your unconventional entries and exits from his premises. And for another, you are, of course, aware that we’re investigating a murder. Don’t you think your activities might have interested us?’

  ‘I don’t see why. Jaws was supposed to have been killed sometime around three, as I understand it and I was back at work by two. My time card will verify that if you want to check it.’

  ‘Time cards can be punched by others, Mr Jones. And frequently are.’

  ‘Well, mine wasn’t. You can ask my supervisor if you want. He always stands by the clocking-in machine and makes sure no one clocks anyone else in. Nothing much gets past him.’

  Rafferty nodded. ‘I’ll do that. Was there anything else you failed to tell us?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anything you might have seen that will help us catch the killer.’

  Billy Jones shook his head. ‘I don’t know nothing. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all for now. But if your supervisor doesn’t back up what you’ve said, I’ll need to speak to you again.’

  ‘He will. He’ll tell you I was at work from two o’clock onwards.’

  Once beyond the gate, Rafferty said, ‘We’ll check with the supervisor in the morning. For now, let’s call it a day. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut and my lovely bride will be spitting feathers and vitriol if I don’t go home sharpish.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The late Peter Allbright wasn’t the only person to suffer despair. When Rafferty arrived home at getting on for nine o’clock that evening, he found Abra in similar straits, though from a different cause.

  ‘My arty photographer rang me earlier. He told me he’s double-booked for our day. He’s got a big society wedding on the second Saturday in June. Guess who won his services? Not us, that’s for sure. He can’t even do the alternative date you said Father Kelly offered us. I’ve contacted every photographer in the area and none of them can do either day.’

  ‘There must be one, surely? Are you certain you’ve tried them all?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I’ve been through the yellow pages and not one of them can give me a firm booking. A couple said they’d put me in their diary in case they had a cancellation, but that’s not good enough. I want a firm booking for our big day. What are we going to do?’ Abra was almost in tears.

  Rafferty sent up a silent ‘thank you’ to the Almighty for encouraging the expensive arty photographer to bow out. But, left to her own devices, the resourceful Abra would doubtless hunt down an even more expensive arty type and offer her body into the bargain to procure his services for their big day. At least, she might if he didn’t do something and fast.

  Fortunately, just then, Rafferty had a brainwave. It was one that would require him to eat vast quantities of humble pie, but better humble pie than no sustenance at all, which was the likely prospect if the wedding costs escalated any further. ‘Leave it with me,’ he told Abra in his most confident manner. ‘I think I might just have come up with a solution.’

  Rafferty arrived at the station the next morning to discover that another of their wedding arrangements had come adrift. Bill Beard hailed him as he came through from the car park to say Hi, with the unwelcome news that his auntie had had a stroke.

  ‘It looks doubtful if she’ll be doing much at all for the foreseeable future, certainly nothing so demanding of hand and eye coordination as making intricate bouquets and suchlike.’

  ‘Sorry to hear about your aunt, Bill,’ Rafferty commiserated. Though not nearly as sorry as Abra was likely to be when he told her. Things were unravelling fast on his wedding plans. He only needed Llewellyn’s mother-in-law to cry off from doing the cake and he’d be all but back to square one. The church and reception hall at least were organised. Father Kelly at St Boniface was a cousin of sorts and had been close to Ma for years; she’d apparently had little trouble in sweet-talking the priest into providing the hall for nothing and the church and the organist for next to nothing. Father Kelly might even throw in the choir for a bottle of the hard stuff. He liked his tipple did Father Kelly. And just as long as he was sober on the day…

  ‘Any chance of using one of your aunt’s flower arranging friends?’ he asked. ‘I know you mentioned they might be able to help out.’

  ‘I don’t know any of them and my aunt’s not compos mentis enough to give anyone their names. No, I’m afraid it’s back to the drawing board, young Rafferty. Hope it doesn’t mean I won’t get my invite.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bill. You’ll still get your invite. I’ll see to it.’

  He was weary of his attempts at wedding planning, most of which seemed to go awry as soon as he’d thought something organised and fixed. Now he was back to square one with the flowers and had still failed to find a colleague ready, willing and able to let them have a free holiday home for their honeymoon. He’d even put a mock-serious ‘WANTED’ poster on the board in reception that featured shots of the usual suspects, with a picture of a top-notch villa that he’d got Llewellyn to Photoshop. But all he’d got for that was a few laughs about his cheek and no takers.

  However, he still had hopes on the flower front; for although Bill Beard's aunt was incapacitated, the wedding was still months’ off and there was time for her to regain her health. And even if her health was never fully restored, she should, within several months, have regained sufficient of her
wits to let him have the names and phone numbers of some of her ex-florist friends whom he could suborn to get the job done.

  Still, he felt sorry for the old lady. From what Beard had told him his aunt had been a doughty lady before her stroke. It was sad that she should have been struck down and left enfeebled. He found out from Beard the name of the hospital ward and sent her a get well card and a bouquet, half-hoping that the latter should be something less than expertly contrived so as to energize her brain and her critical faculties.

  Of course, with neither flowers nor honeymoon organised, Abra was likely to go off on one when he told her the latest. If he told her. She was still plaguing him about wildly expensive honeymoon destinations. Her fancy was for a long-distance honeymoon destination: Goa or Bali being the current favourites even though the latter had suffered bomb outrages in recent years. He was engaged in trying to persuade her of the charms of destinations nearer to home, such as France or Spain, which were the locations where those amongst his colleagues who had holiday homes had chosen to buy. Though from the dearth of offers of freebies from his colleagues, he had to wonder why he was bothering to push for those destinations.

  At the moment, he was working on Kenneth Drummond, the uniformed inspector. Drummond was currently playing hard to get on the subject of letting him and Abra borrow his south of France holiday villa. But he hadn't said an outright "no", so Rafferty was hopeful Drummond would give in if he kept up the pressure.

  Distracted by the let-down over the flowers and the photographer, Rafferty wasn’t concentrating too well. It was no good, he decided. He’d have to go out and get the humble pie eating over with. It was cowardly to leave it lying. Besides, if his wedding planning didn’t soon have some triumph to crow about, Abra would take it all back on to her own shoulders at God knew what cost.

  Cousin Nigel’s scowl of greeting changed to a huge smile when Rafferty explained his problem. It was a gloating smile and one that told Rafferty his cousin intended to extract as much satisfaction as he could from his dilemma.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t want any favours from me? That’s what you said when you threw your mother’s loan back in my face.’

  Rafferty squirmed and admitted, ‘I know I did.’ God, he thought, I’d give anything not to be put in this position. In spite of his cousin’s handsome looks, Nigel gloating wasn’t a pretty sight.

  After several more minutes’ in similar vein, Nigel put his hands behind his immaculately groomed head and leaned back as if surveying a particularly pleasing sight before he admitted, ‘I might be able to help you. Of course, you realise I’ll have to charge you top whack.’

  ‘And how much is top whack?’

  Nigel named his price and Rafferty took a sharp breath as he realised it was more than the most expensive quotation on Abra’s list. But he felt he had little choice; Abra’s selections had all been unable to do their date, so it was Nigel or nothing. Rafferty gritted his teeth to stop the unwise words that were forming in his brain.

  Nigel must have noted the look on his too revealing face, because he said, ‘Of course, I can lower the price for a consideration.’

  ‘A consideration?’ Rafferty’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m still waiting for my invitation to the wedding, dear boy. An oversight, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course. It must have got lost in the post. I’ll get Abra to send you a replacement.’

  Nigel sat forward again. ‘Then you’ve got a deal. You can have my man for your wedding day and I’ll knock a hundred off the price.’

  ‘Is that all?’ It wasn’t much considering he’d had to make the concession of inviting Nigel to the wedding. And it wasn’t as if Nigel’s man was a wedding professional. But as Nigel had made clear, beggars had to bite the bullet and accept what they could get. He didn’t understand why Nigel was so keen on getting a wedding invitation. Perhaps he only wanted an opportunity to sneer? He just hoped Abra never learned that the man who was to capture their wedding for posterity photographed houses for a living.

  After his humbling brainwave on the photographer front, he was driving back to the station when another brainwave came to him; one to do with their murder investigation this time, which made a change. He told Llewellyn about it as soon as he got back to the office.

  ‘We already know there was collusion between the residents indebted to Forbes. They agreed to lie about not seeing Harrison on the afternoon he was murdered But what if they colluded before his death?’

  ‘What? All of them? Like Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express, you mean? Old Emily Parker and the two young women, too? Surely not?’

  ‘A collusion too far, you think?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  Rafferty grunted. ‘Maybe you’re right. It was just an idea.’

  ‘Not one that runs, I wouldn’t think.’

  ‘Try this one for size then. I had another idea. Well, actually, I put two unconnected thoughts together. I might have come out with five. Tell me what you think. Tracey Stubbs was described as a bit of a goer by Tony Moran. Clearly, with three kids and another on the way and all by different fathers according to the gossip on the street, she’s no Virgin Mary.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I was wondering if one of her kids might not be by Jaws Harrison and—’

  ‘Jaws Harrison? Why would he have anything to do with Ms Stubbs? It’s not as if she’s in debt to Forbes and—’

  ‘And decided to pay him in kindness? No. I know that. Not now, she’s not. But maybe she took out a loan from him earlier and paid it off.’

  ‘I still don’t see what it could have to do with the murder even if she did have a previous loan. Surely it’s the here and now with which we should be concerned?’

  Rafferty wasn’t entirely sure himself where he was going with this one, but he persevered. ‘Maybe he encouraged her to pay him in kindness a few times and she fell pregnant by him?’

  ‘And she decided to get her revenge?’

  Rafferty nodded.

  Llewellyn looked sceptical as well he might. Rafferty realised that he should have thought about this longer and deeper before he’d shoved his thoughts out into the cold light of day and Llewellyn’s even colder logic.

  ‘She’s almost due to have her baby,’ Llewellyn pointed out. ‘If that’s the one John Harrison is meant to have fathered. Any attack can hardly have been prompted by a murderous rage about his impregnating her if that’s what you’re implying. If so, surely it would have occurred at the time she discovered she was pregnant?’

  Rafferty wasn’t sure what he was implying. ‘I know that, as a theory, it’s got a few flaws in it,’ he admitted. ‘But I think I’m on to something.’ It was clear that Llewellyn didn’t agree with him. But although he said nothing further, Rafferty had a feeling he was on the right lines. He just wished he knew where his subconscious thought it was heading. Frustrated, he said, ‘Let’s get over to the factory and speak to Billy Jones’s supervisor.’

  Before they went into the factory, Rafferty poked his head around the corner of the building and saw how Jones had managed to climb the high wall. Leaning drunkenly against it were a pile of sturdy wooden palettes which would make climbing the eight foot wall easy. Once on top all he would have to do was ease himself down by his hands and drop a couple of feet. He was willing to bet that Billy had taken the opportunity to dump a few palettes over the wall to facilitate his easy ingress to the factory premises.

  The supervisor, a Mr Simpson, confirmed what Billy Jones had said and handed over his time card. The card agreed with what both Jones and Simpson had said. So that was that. Another possible trail come to a dead end.

  Rafferty, determined to get something else organised on the wedding front, went and saw Nigel again before he tried any other avenues in the investigation. Having had no joy amongst his colleagues for a cost free honeymoon, he turned again to his last resort. His cousin Nigel had just returned fr
om what, to judge by his tight waistband, had been a very good lunch. He was in a mellow mood and greeted Rafferty in a jocular manner.

  'Oh, look,' he said to no one in particular. 'It's the poor relation come to beg for more scraps from the rich cousin's table. Shame I didn't ask the waiter for a doggie bag.'

  Funny man. 'I've had my lunch, thank you, Nigel. I came to see you about something else.'

  'Oh, yes. And what might that be?'

  Rafferty didn't beat about the bush. 'Seeing as we're back in the business of giving and receiving family favours, how are you fixed for lending us a holiday home?'

  'A holiday home? This'll be for the honeymoon, I take it?' asked Nigel.

  'That's right. I wondered if you might have branched out into foreign lets and sales.'

  'As a matter of fact, I have. It's another new venture. It's not been going long, but it's doing well.'

  'I'm looking for a nice villa in the south of France. At special family rates, of course.'

  Nigel smiled. 'I'm surprised you're asking me. Surely some of your overpaid police colleagues have a holiday home or two between them?'

  'Never mix business and pleasure. That's always been my motto.' In truth, he'd have been willing enough to mix the two if only one of his colleagues had co-operated, it being preferable to get a free loan of a holiday let for the honeymoon than pay out whatever Nigel thought reasonable. Unfortunately Kenneth Drummond, the colleague he had most recently tried to talk into the rental, had turned him down flat after playing with him for several days. 'Perhaps you can let me have a brochure?'

  'Certainly.' Nigel whipped a colour brochure out of his desk drawer. 'And seeing as you'll be renting in June before the holiday season gets into full swing, I can give you a ten per cent discount on the usual price. Most of my clients would be glad enough to get a two-week booking at a time they'd normally expect their places to be empty not to quibble about the price reduction.' He nodded at the brochure. 'You and Abra have a look through that and let me know your choice and I'll get it booked for you.'