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WHILE LLEWELLYN PAID the delayed visited to Charles Shore's offices, Rafferty remained at the station and concentrated his mind on the other suspects, and what they claimed they had been doing on the afternoon of Barbara Longman's murder.
Hilary Shore had said she had been in London, spending her husband's money. According to the staff of Harvey Nichols, Hilary had certainly been there and at the aromatherapist's, though as the fashion show had ended at 1.30 p.m. and she'd been half an hour late for her 5.30 appointment with Mrs Armadi, there was an unexplained discrepancy. Rafferty was curious to know what she had been doing during the rest of the afternoon. Damn the woman, he thought. Why can't she return home, or at least telephone to let someone know where, exactly, in London, she might be found?
The housekeeper, with or without the help of the Italian au pair, claimed to have been stirring her raspberry jam and the gardener had been in the nearest pub, it being his half day. His alibi, at least, had checked out.
The little girl had been at the Church Hall for the play rehearsal; the two boys, presumably, as Mrs Griffiths had suggested, not relishing the prospect of dressing up in ridiculous costumes, had disappeared before the telephone call, returning home once they could be sure Barbara was safely out of the house. According to the housekeeper, however, they were both back before the 3.30 p.m. deadline he had set.
Then, of course, there was Henry, who, after first lying to them, had claimed to have taken his sick stomach to bed, and Anne Longman who thought she'd been at home, but who'd been careful enough not to swear to it.
As for the motive that Recycled Rita had imputed to Charles Shore, whether Llewellyn's enquiries had been applied with so much discretion that the people he had questioned had missed his point entirely, Rafferty didn't know, but the Welshman hadn't uncovered the tiniest rumour that Shore's chemical firm had polluted the river since the first accusation several years earlier. Of course, it was possible that Rita Colman's dislike of Shore and people like him had encouraged the accusation. But Rafferty had told Llewellyn to keep digging anyway. 'But, for God's sake,' he added. 'Don't let anything get back to Shore. If it does and he complains about harassment, Bradley'll have my balls for breakfast.'
'I'll carry on being discreet, don't worry.' Llewellyn had assured him. He had given Rafferty an elliptical glance before leaving for Shore's offices. 'I'm not brave enough to risk Mrs Rafferty's revenge if I deprive her of her longed-for grandson.'
Neither am I, thought Rafferty.
***
LLEWELLYN HAD SOME interesting information to share when he returned to the police station later than day. 'You were right. Mr Shore's alibi didn't stand up to deeper investigation. When I spoke to his personal secretary before, she told me he was working on some urgent figures that afternoon and had told her not to disturb him. She was adamant that he didn't go past her. But what she didn't say was that his private washroom has another door that leads down to a neighbouring street. Fortunately, neither Shore nor his secretary was there today, and I was able to speak to a more junior member of staff who wasn't quite so discreet.'
'Interesting. If Recycled Rita's accusations are true, he could easily have reached the meadow, killed Mrs Longman, and returned, in under forty minutes.'
Llewellyn nodded. 'But could he be sure his secretary wouldn't disturb him?'
Rafferty raised a sardonic eyebrow. 'Would you disturb him, if he'd ordered you not to? I wouldn't. Our Mr Shore is used to having his orders obeyed. I imagine he'd give his secretary hell if she dared to interrupt him.' He recalled some of Shore's exploits in the business world and added, 'Anyway, he's cool enough to take a chance. You checked if anyone in the neighbouring street saw him?'
Llewellyn nodded again. 'Nothing, I'm afraid. And he wasn't driving his BMW that day as it was in the garage and he'd hired a much less showy model.' He paused. 'No-one saw that, either.'
'Typical.' Disgruntled, Rafferty shrugged into his jacket. 'I'm off to talk to old Ma Thomson. See if she does substantiate her son's story.'
***
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, conscious of the three sets of baleful dark brown eyes stabbing like a devil's pitchfork between his shoulder-blades, Rafferty squelched with as measured a tread as he could muster, from the tumbledown, weatherboard farmhouse, across the glutinous black mud of the yard, to his car.
The two lean mongrels dancing hungrily beside Thomson flashed teeth far superior to their master's, so it was with a sigh of relief that Rafferty reached the car and opened the door. Annoyed that he'd allowed the trio to intimidate him, he turned and scowled at them.
The dogs bared their magnificent teeth in angry growls, but Thomson took no notice. He was too busy staring, with an expression of malevolent satisfaction, at Rafferty's ill-shod feet.
Rafferty glanced down and sighed. He supposed there were shoes in there—somewhere, but he was damned if he could see them under the mud. Normally, he kept a pair of wellington boots in the car. Wasn't it just his luck that the last time he'd taken them home to wash off the accumulated muck, he'd forgotten to put them back?
No doubt the wretched farmer was congratulating himself on the urge that had inspired him to hose down his battered old van ten minutes before Rafferty's arrival. Rafferty was almost tempted to do him for using his hose-pipe during a ban, but he resisted the impulse. Anyway, he wasn't sure of his facts. For all he knew, a farmer like Thomson was entitled to make free with large quantities of water during a drought. In the CID, you tended to get out of touch with such regulations.
Thomson's neighbours had been right about him. The farmer had been as obstructive as possible, and Rafferty had got no more out of the uncommunicative Thomson than had Shore or Llewellyn. The man was adamant that he knew nothing about any phone call and that he hadn't attempted to plough up the meadow. It was still there, wasn't it, he'd demanded belligerently—undisturbed, as the government and the Conservation Society decreed? As this was irrefutable, Rafferty had had no choice but to agree.
But Thomson certainly had a short fuse. He also had several scratches on his face. The man had an elemental quality, of basic instincts and primitive angers that wouldn't require much to set them off. Those large, calloused hands would subdue his victim easily enough, but in the process, Rafferty felt sure they would leave more bruises on the body than Mrs Longman had sustained.
Unfortunately for Rafferty's latest theory, Thomson's mother had eventually confirmed his alibi. Her slowness in doing so might have seemed suspicious in another woman, but Rafferty didn't think her reluctance was due to an attempt to conceal the truth. The old woman had a warped sense of humour, and seemed to find her dour son's predicament amusing. For some malicious reason of her own, she had simply decided to cause him as much trouble as possible before confirming his alibi and saving him from being hauled off to the police station—not quite the picture of doting motherhood that Rafferty had imagined.
Still, those scratches were interesting. And the old woman might easily have dozed off, sitting in the warm sun as she had been, even if she had vehemently denied such a possibility. Although it would probably be a waste of time, Rafferty decided to allow himself the satisfaction of checking the matter out further. He wasn't sure if Dally's report had made any mention of skin being trapped under the dead woman's nails, but it was worth checking.
***
LLEWELLYN WAS IN THE office going through yet more statements when Rafferty got back. 'Anything useful come in?' he queried, as he slammed the door noisily behind him.
The Welshman winced and shook his head. 'Nothing positive. None of the local taxi firms report picking up a fare at the Shells' or dropping anyone near the meadow. And, as far as Barbara Longman's car's concerned, one or two drivers on the road near the meadow mentioned noticing a red hatchback parked in that side lane where we found hers. The times point to it being the same one. Another man reported seeing two cars there as he passed on the main road, but he's vague on details. Though he did sound positive on the time. Said it was about 3.20 p m.'
Rafferty looked thoughtful. 'I don't suppose he remembers any details about the second car? Things like make, colour, registration number, for instance?'
Llewellyn shook his head again.
It was too much to hope for, of course. 'Keep them at it, Dafyd. It might yet turn something up. Did you manage to get hold of Hilary Shore yet?'
‘No. But Mrs Griffiths promised to ring me as soon as she returns.'
'What it is to have friends at Court.' Llewellyn and the housekeeper had been getting very pally, Rafferty knew. Although she had made it clear she had no time for his boss, for some reason she had taken a fancy to Llewellyn. Of course, they were both Welsh, which probably explained it. Rafferty could imagine them sharing mutual grievances about him over hot tea and Welsh griddle cakes in the Shores' kitchen.
Rafferty smiled as he remembered a little chore he had saved for Llewellyn. 'I want you to go and see Mrs Watson again,' he told the housekeeper's confidant. Gratified to see that Llewellyn's long face grew appreciably longer at this news, he went on, 'She's not on the phone, unfortunately, and, although it seems Henry had no reason to kill his wife, we still ought to check if his car was parked in front of her house all afternoon on the day of the murder.' His eyes held a sardonic gleam as he added, 'Better get yourself a new notebook, before you go. How are WPC Green and Hanks coming along with checking out the members of the Conservation Society?' He supplied his own answer before Llewellyn could utter any reproach. 'Slowly, I suppose?'
Llewellyn's nod indicated he supposed correctly. But did the Welshman have to look quite so pleased about it? 'You'd better get off now. I've got one or two things to do here.'
Not wanting the Welshman to know he found Sam's reports pretty well incomprehensible, he waited till Llewellyn had gone, before he picked up the phone to ring Dally. He started to dial, but then put the phone down again, as he remembered how much Dally always hated having to repeat himself. Why give the old duffer another chance to take a pop at him? Dammit, he'd have another go at it himself, he decided. It couldn't be that difficult. If he concentrated...
He looked vaguely around. Where was the blasted thing? If Llewellyn had put it away somewhere tidy... He began to drag out the neatly pigeon-holed reports and statements, piling them haphazardly on the desk, till he came to Dally's. Stifling a groan of dismay at the length of it, he settled down to try to untangle the ponderous medical terminology. He was still at it when Llewellyn returned.
'I've checked with Mrs Watson, sir.' Llewellyn glanced resignedly at the untidy desk. 'And although none of the neighbours were at home that afternoon to confirm the times, she admitted that Henry Longman's car remained outside her house all afternoon. So, if he did it, he'd have needed the use of another vehicle, and the only other cars there were the housekeeper's and the van belonging to Higginbottom, the gardener. He'd left it there, with the key in the ignition when he finished work. The boy's tutor was only there in the mornings and he left at twelve.'
'Does the gardener park his van in the same place as Mrs Griffiths?' Rafferty asked.
'Yes. They all use the largest of the old sheds behind the house.'
'And they're concealed by hedging, and aren't visible from the downstairs rooms. Very convenient.'
'They'd be seen clearly enough from upstairs,' Llewellyn reminded him.
'Only if anyone happened to be looking out of one of the back windows and we've already concluded that was unlikely. Apart from the boys – who might have been anywhere, and the au pair who was at the front of the house – there was no-one about to see. If Henry borrowed one of those cars, he could have gone out by the back lane. Where are the keys usually kept?'
'The gardener keeps his in his pocket, but that morning he had been unloading bags of peat and had forgotten to take the key from the ignition. He left it there the entire afternoon while he was in the pub, so anyone could have noticed the key and taken the car. Mrs Griffiths leaves her keys in her handbag, which is hung in full view on the back door.'
'Hmm.' Rafferty tapped his nose thoughtfully. 'If he went out the front way, the au pair might have seen him, I suppose.'
'She didn't, sir.' For some reason, the usually sallow skin on Llewellyn’s cheekbones was stained with two bright spots of colour, and Rafferty wondered if the bold-eyed Italian girl had made a pass at him.
Llewellyn went doggedly on. 'She said Mrs Griffiths had told her to change the children's beds—apparently keeping the children's rooms tidy is one of her duties. She insisted on taking me upstairs to show me how far away from the window the beds are.'
'Now, I wonder why she did that?' With a speculative grin, Rafferty stared at Llewellyn, but the Welshman, although he looked discomfited, made no comment. 'I suppose Mrs Watson would have heard a car coming from that back entrance if he'd left that way?'
'Not necessarily, sir,' Llewellyn replied, as his cheeks gradually lost their glow. 'I noticed while I was there that I could hear cars passing quite clearly from the front room, but when she called me into the kitchen for a cup of tea, I couldn't hear any traffic. The kitchen is down a little passage at the back of the house and Mrs Watson admitted that, after she had seen Henry, she left the garden and went to make a pot of tea. So, if Henry had left that way, it's possible she wouldn't have known.' He glanced morosely at the clock on the wall. 'She seems to set as much store by the restorative powers of tea as Mrs Rafferty, sir, as she forced three cups on me. I thought I'd never get away.'
'You do seem to have a bit of trouble with the ladies one way and another, don't you, Taff? First Mrs Griffiths, now Mrs Watson and the little Italian girl. Isn't my cousin, Maureen, enough for you?' Llewellyn's lips compressed. 'I'm damned if I know what they see in you. Anyway,' Rafferty continued when his teasing brought forth no further response. 'It's all a bit inconclusive, isn't it? It's possible that no cars passed while you were there. It's a shame all Mrs Watson's neighbours were at work. If they hadn't been we might have discovered if Henry's or the housekeeper's cars were used.'
He sighed. 'I wish we had something more definite than all these coulds and mights and maybes. As the husband, Longman's still got to be in the running, however unlikely it seems that his wife was having an affair. He lied to us about his whereabouts, remember, and he may appear as innocent as a choirgirl, but then,' Rafferty directed a mischievous glance at his sergeant, 'being Welsh, you'd know all about choirgirls. And this particular chorister was smart enough to wangle himself a nice cushy billet.' Which was more than he'd ever managed to do. 'His first wife's also in the running,' he went on. 'Especially as, as far as we've been able to discover, she had as strong a motive for killing the woman as anyone.'
Llewellyn reminded him that the telephone message had been from a man, not a woman.
'If there ever was a message,' he taunted. 'Which brings us back to your friend, Mrs Griffiths...' He continued before Llewellyn was able to protest. 'Anyway, I'm no longer sure that the caller's gender is particularly significant.'
He swung round on his swivel chair. 'I've been thinking about it, and Anne Longman, for one, had only to persuade some man friend to leave the message for her. It's more than likely she would ignore her brother's veto on her bringing "followers" back to the flat. And, even if Shore pays her neighbours to spy on her, they're likely to be out some of the time. I'm sure if she picked her moment, she could invite half the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders up to that flat – as long as they didn't insist on playing their bagpipes – with no-one any the wiser.'
Llewellyn nodded. 'She's attractive enough to persuade—'
'You noticed that, huh?' Rafferty grinned. 'But you're right. She'd be as well able as her brother to use charm to get what she wanted. And it wasn't as if she would need to ask a possible boyfriend to make any kind of threatening phone call. The message would sound perfectly innocuous to a third party. All she would have to do was tell him she was playing a joke on her sister-in-law. After all, their surnames were the same so it would sound believable enough.'
He tapped his teeth thoughtfully. 'It's possible that once news of the murder broke – if there was such a man – he'd have been too frightened to come forward. He'd have been scared we might suspect him of killing her. Of course, the problem with her is that unless she persuaded some man or other to drive her down to Essex and back, she'd still have to stay sober long enough to get here from London. If she had murder on her mind, she would surely not be reckless enough to risk being breathalysed so close to the scene of the crime.'
He swung his chair decisively round to the front. 'We're returning to London, Llewellyn. I want to see if Anne Longman's memory has returned. But, before we see her, we'll have a word with her neighbours and question them about any possible boyfriends and what cars they drive. It's a long shot, but worth checking. Mrs Griffiths may be able to help there, too. Pump her a little more next time you see her. We know Anne Longman hated the victim and, with her out of the running, she might think she had a good chance of getting custody of her son.
'But before we go.' Rafferty silently admitted defeat and thrust Dally's pathology report at him. 'Have another read of that. I don't suppose it's significant, but you probably noticed when you saw him earlier, that Thomson's face was scratched. If it's irrelevant, I want to get it cleared out of the way. You know how I hate a muddle.'
At this, Llewellyn's gaze rested sardonically on the untidy desk. Impervious to such subtle criticism, Rafferty added, 'All I want to know is if the victim had skin trapped under her nails and I'm expected to wade through all that bloody mumbo-jumbo.'
'But Dally already told us there was nothing,' said Llewellyn. 'Don't you remember?'
Rafferty had been too occupied with keeping his lunch down at the post-mortem to have much attention to spare for Dally's colourful blow-by-blow account of his findings, but he wasn't going to admit that to Llewellyn and brusquely, he ordered him, 'Just read it, there's a good lad.'
Five minutes later, Llewellyn confirmed what he'd already said. 'No. No skin trapped.'
'Are you sure?' Rafferty frowned suspiciously at the speed of Llewellyn's perusal. It had taken him that long just to read the first page. And then he'd had to go back and read it again because he'd hardly taken in a word of it.
'It says so here, sir,' said Llewellyn, pointing to a particularly lengthy paragraph.
Rafferty skimmed the first few lines and decided to take his sergeant's word for it. 'Not that that lets Thomson out. Even if his mother does confirm his story, she's old and could have let her eyes droop for five minutes. The victim was only a little slip of a thing. He could have overpowered her quickly enough, and returned to the other side of the farm without his mother even noticing he'd gone.'
'You think he might have lost his temper and killed her accidently?'
'Maybe.' Rafferty sighed and then admitted. 'But it doesn't seem likely. He's had a running battle with that Society for several years now, without killing any of them.'
His hunt for Dally's report had turned his desk upside-down and, as his gaze came to rest on the old photographs of Maximillian Shore that he'd had Llewellyn dig out of the files, he frowned, and remarked, with a somewhat bashful smile. 'You know, Dafyd, this old man's face seems to haunt me. It's as if some sixth sense is telling me he has something to do with the murder.'
He shrugged ruefully, as Llewellyn opened his mouth. 'Don't ask me how or why. I know it's illogical, but, after reading his autobiography, I feel even more convinced that there's something there, something that connects with this case. He was a despot, with family and business rivals both. His overpowering, destructive, personality still hangs over the family fifteen years later. For all his success, Charles strikes me as a deeply unhappy man, Anne is a bitter drunk, he ruined whatever chances Henry might have had as an artist by pushing him to become a businessman. His evil influence has lingered even unto the second generation, as the children seem as incapable of happiness as the adults. They were a family waiting for further tragedy and now it's happened. Look at that face, man. Just look at it, then tell me you don't feel it, too.'
Obediently, Llewellyn came to stand beside him and studied the now faded photographs.
'Even though these photographs are old and grainy, you have to admit the man's personality still comes out of the picture and grabs you by the throat. He's the key that will unlock the door to this case, I know it.'
'I can see that, in his day, he must have wielded great influence,' Llewellyn admitted. 'But he's been dead for years. All right, I agree, they're not a happy family, but I'd have thought any tragedy waiting to happen would have occurred at the time he died – when that divisive will was read – not years later. Charles is the patriarch now. I just can't see what possible connection a man, dead for fifteen years, can have with this murder.'
Neither could Rafferty. All he knew for certain was that, far more even than these photographs, Maximillian's portrait seemed to act as a magnet for him. Each time he went to the Shores' house, he would find himself drawn to it, more and more convinced that the old man's formidable gaze held a message. However, if it did, he had yet to discover what it was. But, he realised, it might help his understanding if he found out more about what had made the dead patriarch tick. 'Didn't Charles mention something about his father's papers?' he asked, a few seconds later. 'Those theoretical papers he was working on. It might be worth digging into them.'
'He said they'd been thrown out, as I remember,' Llewellyn replied, his expression implying he had no interest in being led down this particular blind alley.
'He said they'd probably been thrown out,' Rafferty quickly corrected. Llewellyn's lack of enthusiasm for his idea made him all the more eager to pursue it, especially as, even though they had managed to turn up a few interesting items, they didn't seem to be getting very far with any of them. 'Ring Mrs Griffiths and ask her about those papers. I bet if anyone knows where they are, it'll be the housekeeper. Lucky for us that, with your Welsh charm, you've got her wound round your finger already. I'll see you out by the car.'
However, according to the housekeeper, she was as sure as she could be that the papers would have gone on the gardener's bonfire years ago, which information somewhat hindered Rafferty's desire to learn more of the old man. Disgruntled, he slammed the driver's door and, putting his foot down, headed for London.
