Death Dues

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘Well, it’s true, so if you find a hammer anywhere on your travels, don’t touch it, but be sure to report it to me.’ Gravely, Rafferty took a card out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘If you find a hammer or learn anything else, you give me a bell, Bazza. Promise me?’

  ‘Cool.’ Enraptured, the boy gazed at the card as at a treasured possession, his desire to return to his computer game clearly forgotten.

  It was nice, Rafferty thought as they turned away, that there were still kids about who didn’t think the police were the enemy.

  Rafferty decided to go to see Father Kelly straight after work in order to get the wedding date booked. He found the priest in his study with papers, as usual, strewn over every surface. He had a new housekeeper, another young woman. She had a lush figure and a propensity to low-necked tops. Just the way the old reprobate liked them. He was in a playful mood. From the smell of his breath, he’d had a couple.

  ‘And isn’t it the wedding boy himself, young Lochinvar come out of the west,’ Father Kelly greeted him as he poured another glass from the bottle of Jameson’s whiskey standing at his elbow and took a hefty swig. ‘I wondered when you’d come calling. Your Ma said you’re finally making a start on getting your wedding organised.’

  ‘That’s right, Father. Can you book us in for June next year?’

  ‘Sure and you’re already booked. Didn’t your Mammy book it months ago?’

  Rafferty stared at him, stupefied. ‘How can she have booked it? We’ve only just decided on the date ourselves.’

  ‘Not a woman to hang about, Kitty Rafferty. She told me you and Abra would be dithering and she was right. Your Ma’s a sensible woman and knew it was necessary to get it booked as soon as possible. I set aside a twelve o’clock on the second and fourth Saturdays of the month. You can take your pick.’

  Rafferty supposed, as he sipped the Jameson’s that the ever hospitable priest had poured for him, that he ought to be grateful that his Ma, at least, had shown some foresight. No wonder she’d pushed so keenly for June and had rubbished May. No doubt if they’d decided on June and she’d booked July, she’d have found something disparaging to say about that month as well. Oh well. It was done now. ‘Hold on a minute, Father and I’ll check with Abra which date she’d prefer.’ After a quick chat on his mobile, Abra confirmed they’d go for the second Saturday.

  Father Kelly made a note in his diary. He beamed at Rafferty and insisted on pouring him another drink. ‘To celebrate your forthcoming nuptials,’ he said. ‘Never thought I’d live to see the day, not after your last lot.’

  Rafferty and Angie, his late first wife, had had a shotgun wedding and the marriage had gone downhill from there. ‘It was just a matter of finding the right woman this time,’ he said. ‘And now I’ve found her.’

  ‘It’s glad for you, I am.’ Father Kelly raised his glass. ‘Here’s to your young lady. May you be blessed with many babies.’

  Rafferty wasn’t sure the latter part of the toast was one he wanted to drink to, particularly given that Abra’s name meant “Mother of Multitudes”, but he didn’t say so to Father Kelly who, like the Pope, another bachelor, thought the world should be filled with Catholic babies and lots of them whatever the penury of the parents.

  They clinked glasses and both took more than a sip.

  ‘Your Ma booked the church hall while she was at it,’ Father Kelly informed him. ‘She said you’d want the complete package.’ He gazed at Rafferty under his thick eyebrows. ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  Rafferty, stymied by the manager of the Elmhurst Hotel on the reception venue front, gave a weak nod. ‘Of course, Father. Where else would we want to hold the reception?’ Especially since The Elmhurst Hotel and the other swanky places Abra had favoured for the reception were all booked up. It was Father Kelly’s church hall or nowhere.

  He was feeling sorry for himself over his own ineptitude. But it got better as Father Kelly added, ‘Of course, Joseph, I insist on letting you and Abra have the use of the hall for free as a wedding present. After all, I baptised you, presided over your first communion and confirmation and those of the rest of your fine brood of siblings, so it’s only fitting that I set you off on the next of life’s cycles.’

  ‘That’s decent of you, Father. Thank you.’ It mightn’t be the glamorous reception location that Abra had set her heart on. But as he would tell her, it was the act of getting married, of making a commitment to one another in front of witnesses that was the important part, not all the frills and froth that too often surrounded and obscured the main event.

  ‘I’ll confirm it in my other diary.’ Father Kelly pulled another book, a red one this time, towards him and firmed up the booking. That done, he said, ‘Now that we’re all official, you must get your young feeancy along so I can give her some instruction.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about that, Father. Abra’s not very religious and—’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that my boy.’ Father Kelly beamed, showing his yellow tombstone teeth. ‘Such a lack of conviction leaves a vacuum. And doesn’t the saying go that nature abhors a vacuum? I’ll soon fill her head with the right stuff, don’t you worry about that.’

  That was precisely what Rafferty had been worrying about. Abra had said she would be willing to get married in St Boniface only if she wasn’t forced to listen to a lot of religious mumbo jumbo before the big day. To have Father Kelly filling her head with the ‘right stuff’ was unlikely to go down too well. But again, unless they could get a cancellation to get married elsewhere, it was St Boniface or nowhere. Abra would just have to grin and bear the marriage classes and religious mumbo jumbo she would have to go through. It was that or find another, non-religious venue and possibly put their wedding back a year.

  Father Kelly seemed cock a hoop, as if, with this wedding, he felt he’d got Rafferty into his religious clutches once again and knew exactly what he intended to do with him.

  It was a pity, Rafferty mused later as he drove carefully home, mindful of the two large whiskeys he’d consumed and wary of the traffic cops, that neither of them had realised just how far ahead it was necessary to book a wedding; then they could have avoided this religious trap. But Ma, as usual had got her way. Not only the month, but also the location. Moreover, she’d managed to make them grateful while she was doing it. Rafferty shook his head in reluctant admiration. You had to hand it to her. Ma really was an adept at organising others’ lives to suit her own agenda. She should have taken up politics rather than marriage and repeated childbearing.

  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 ear
ly 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 uniformed 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.’