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RAFFERTY GAVE A LOW whistle as he pulled up in the short drive of Prosecutor Elizabeth Probyn's house just after noon on Saturday. 'She's spent a few bob here recently on security.' He grinned. 'Wonder who else she's managed to rub up the wrong way? One of those criminals she feels so impartial about, perhaps?'
The burglar alarm squatted like a square red carbuncle on the white-painted face of the house; the front door had a spyhole, and the ground floor windows all had dark green metal shutters that could be rolled down at night.
Although Rafferty had only once before, some five months previously, had occasion to visit the house, he knew none of these precautions had been in evidence then. He grinned again. He couldn't help it. Of course Llewellyn had to speak up for her.
'I think you misjudge her. She does her job well; but she does it within the limits of the law. If one were to listen solely to your opinion of her, one could be forgiven for thinking she wasn't successful.’
‘Could one?’
Llewellyn ignored the sarcasm. ‘But she is successful—frequently. As for the security, I imagine she receives the usual threats when one of the more vindictive amongst the criminal fraternity gets sent down. Why make it easy for any who decide to carry out their threats?' He rang the bell.
Rafferty's lip curled. His sergeant was of as cool and impartial a turn of mind as Elizabeth Probyn, and could be relied upon to stand up for her. Of course Llewellyn hadn't experienced the shouting matches that he had with her. Or rather, ruefully, he corrected himself—he had been the one to do the shouting. Typically, Elizabeth Probyn had responded in that cool manner of hers that always infuriated him even more.
Unlike several other Crown Prosecution Service lawyers with whom Rafferty had worked in the past, Elizabeth Probyn made no attempt to pretend she was there to help the police to nail villains. On the contrary, she insisted that the role of the prosecutor was an objective, impartial one; to lay before the court both the facts for the accused as well as those against. As she had crisply informed Rafferty on more than one occasion, the Prosecution Service was a representative, not of the police, but of the public, on whose behalf cases were brought. Winning or losing didn't come into it.
Rafferty had no patience with such legalese; it invariably rendered him incoherent with rage. Older and wiser after their first few confrontations, he had with difficulty learned to control his feelings when they met and, while simmering underneath, on top he was all unnatural politeness like a reluctant dancing partner.
The door was eventually answered by a dumpy middle-aged woman in a dingy grey overall, who through lips that held a dangling cigarette, told them she was Mrs Chadden, and that she "did" for the prosecutor. She was new, too, Rafferty realised. He remembered the previous cleaner had been thin, elderly, and tending to sniffiness when Rafferty had introduced himself. He had concluded that, out of the courtroom at least, Elizabeth Probyn dropped a large chunk of her prized impartiality. No doubt the other cleaner had retired.
They were expected, and Mrs Chadden let them in with all the chatty enthusiasm of one whose main occupation was finding excuses to stop work. The state of the kitchen confirmed that she had little trouble in finding such excuses. It was barely superficially clean. It was obvious that as a "treasure" she had limited worth. Rafferty was surprised Elizabeth Probyn didn't get rid of her and hire a more competent model.
'Madam said she'd been delayed and I was to look after you,' she told them when her first rapid flow of chat was finally used up. 'I don't normally work weekends, but she rang and asked me to come in special this morning.' She left them in no doubt that she regarded this as a major concession.
'I suppose you want tea?' Not pausing for their response, she filled the electric kettle and plonked it down on its base on the worktop and switched on, before reaching into a cupboard for mugs. 'Course what with that high-powered job of hers, and now, with her daughter being in hospital, she seems to spend all her time running from pillar to post. And then her previous lady retired suddenly. She was lucky I was available at such short notice.'
Which explained her employment of Mrs Chadden. Rafferty said, 'I didn't know she had a daughter.'
It was hardly surprising. Their stilted working relationship scarcely encouraged the bringing out of the family albums. Rafferty, who liked to get to know colleagues on a deeper, more personal level, found her standoffish attitude even more constraining.
'Been abroad at school, I imagine. Not met her meself. As I said, it was the hospital visiting on top of her work that got me the job. Some sort of women's trouble, the daughter has, I gather,' Mrs Chadden confided, in delicately lowered tones. 'Must admit, she does look terrible peaky in the latest photos the Missis took of her. So, as I say, what with the long hours the Missis works and then the hospital visiting, she needed a decent woman to look after her, and I was happy to oblige. Recommended I was.'
The idea appeared as startling to her as it did to Rafferty, who concluded it must have been a disgruntled copper who had made the recommendation. Rafferty watched, fascinated, as the cigarette, in apparent defiance of the laws of gravity, remained perched on the edge of her lower lip as she chattered on. 'Best little job I've had for a long time, I don't mind telling you. Course, I've only worked here a few weeks, and she might be being on her best behaviour, like. Some do. But then,' she gazed round the barely clean kitchen with a proprietary air. 'You can see she's used to having things nice.'
She glanced at the clock and frowned. 'I hope she's not going to be much longer, only I've got to get to the chemist in town and it's their early closing day. Promised my old mum I'd pick up some snaps of her and some other old biddies she was in the forces with. I don't like to leave you here on your own. Hardly hospitable.'
Rafferty's glance caught her straw basket, through the holes of which a 2lb bag of sugar was visible, and it occurred to him that it wasn't politeness that was making her anxious so much as concern that, left on their own, the law's finest might half-inch stores that she regarded as her prerogative. Judging from the other holes, the sugar had company. Careful to keep the amusement from his voice, Rafferty attempted to reassure her, but she showed no inclination to trust them and depart.
'Two hours a day I put in here, Monday to Friday,' she told them. 'From eight to ten in the morning, but as it’s the weekend, she didn’t ask me to come before ten.' It was now 12.10 a m on a Saturday and she was obviously getting restive. She slopped water into the cups, gave the teabags a dunk or two, and tipped the milk in. 'Help yourselves to sugar,' she invited, as she dumped the cups before them and sat down. Her invitation notwithstanding, as she chattered on, she gazed with a pained expression as Rafferty helped himself to three sugars, took a tentative sip of the weak brew, and just managed not to pull a disgusted face.
Thankfully, they weren't to be subjected to Mrs Chadden's runaway tongue beyond bearing, as, after another couple of minutes, she cocked her head on one side and announced, 'Here she is now,' before rearranging the folds of a cardigan more discreetly over the basket and getting into her coat. 'I'll be off then,' she told Ms Probyn, as the Prosecutor came into the kitchen.
Elizabeth Probyn was a tall woman, and although she was undoubtedly a little overweight, Rafferty noted once again that she carried both height and weight well. She was, he knew, thirty-six, two years younger than him, though from her poised, confident air, she always seemed much older. In a burst of honesty, Rafferty acknowledged that if he hadn't lacked these qualities himself, he wouldn't feel nearly so irritated by her possession of them. Unconsciously, he straightened his shoulders, commenting, 'Charming woman,' when Mrs Chadden had left.
If she suspected that Rafferty was making a sly dig about her poor choice of cleaner, Elizabeth Probyn didn't let it show. 'Can't say I've noticed myself,' she briefly commented, adding, 'shall we go through to the drawing-room?'
The drawing-room was a spacious, comfortable room, though like the kitchen, the air of neglect was evident. Rafferty had learned on the police grapevine that Elizabeth Probyn was divorced. Grudgingly, he admitted she had her work cut out keeping up a house of this size if the only help she had was the slapdash Mrs Chadden. She certainly looked tired; the mauve shadows under her eyes were beginning to deepen to purple and gave her an air of fragility he had never noticed before.
Determined to start the interview off on the right foot for once, as they sat down, Rafferty forced a sympathetic comment, 'I gather Mrs Chadden's something of a stop-gap while your daughter's in hospital?' She stared at him, as if she resented his familiarity, and he said quickly, 'It must be a worrying time for you.' The frown told him she suspected he had deliberately encouraged her gossiping treasure.
She said, 'It is,' and abruptly changed the subject. 'I gather you wanted to speak to me about the Maurice Smith case?'
His friendly overtures rebuffed, Rafferty now became equally abrupt. 'Yes.' Curiosity compelled him to let his gaze travel surreptitiously round the room, as he gestured to Llewellyn to take out his notebook. The only other time he'd been here, he'd got no further than the hall, and now, he noticed lots of framed photographs, presumably of the daughter, as a tiny baby and young woman, resting on top of the piano in the window alcove. She was an attractive girl, or could be, if she took some trouble. But she dressed drably, as so many young women did nowadays, and she gazed out at the world with wary eyes from beneath an unkempt mop of dark hair.
'I just wanted your general recollections, if any,' Rafferty continued, forcing a calmness he was far from feeling. Keep it light, Rafferty, he advised himself. Don't let her get to you. She's bound to be uptight about her ancient failure, especially as it's you asking the questions. 'For instance, you were the prosecutor in the case. Did you believe Smith to be guilty?'
As though explaining something to a tiresome child, her voice was measured as she said, 'Come, Inspector, you know I don't make such judgments.'
'But you did that time,' he came back at her. 'In fact, from what I understand, it was you who insisted there was sufficient evidence to press ahead with the case, even though—' He broke off and tried again as he saw her lips thin. 'We've spoken to ex-Inspector Stubbs, the officer in charge,' he added, 'and he was helpful. And as it was his last case before he retired, he remembered it well, even though it was ten years ago.'
'I'm sure.' Ms Probyn gave them a taut smile. 'So do I. It was his last big case and my first, as I've no doubt he told you. And, if it gives you any satisfaction, Inspector, yes, I did believe Smith to be guilty. He was as guilty as hell.' For a moment the idealist that she must have been in her youth showed though the calm façade. Rafferty had always suspected that underneath, she was a passionate woman and was glad to see his own judgement vindicated. He still couldn't warm to her, but at least it made her seem more human.
She flushed, no doubt embarrassed by her outburst. 'Of course Chief Inspector Stubbs resented us.' She glanced coolly at him. 'Most of the police did.' She shrugged. 'It was a natural enough reaction, I suppose. There we were, a newly-hatched Crown Prosecution Service, taking the decision-making power about who to prosecute out of police hands, and with all us fluffy little chicks, eager to stretch our wings. And then there was Inspector Stubbs, the rooster of the coop, wishing us all in perdition. I didn't deal with it very well,' she admitted. It was plain she found the admission difficult.
'Thankfully, experience has brought a measure of self-control, but at the time, his attitude made me stubborn, and when he said he had doubts that we'd get a conviction and wanted more time, I lost my temper and insisted that the prosecution went ahead. Foolishly, as it turned out. But then I was young and eager to prove myself. No doubt my head was filled with dreams of glory.' She gave a sudden, harsh laugh. 'As you can imagine, the Maurice Smith case brought me down to earth with a bump. I learned a hard lesson that day.'
Rafferty nodded, for the first time getting a glimmer of understanding as to what had helped shape her outlook. The young Elizabeth Osbourne-that was must have felt her career over before it had really begun and that, ever afterwards, her name would be associated with the Maurice Smith fiasco. She'd done well to put it behind her. She'd shed her idealism a touch quicker than most, and acquired a useful maturity; shame it wasn't matched by an equal compassion for the victims of crimes. But, whatever his private opinions, she had gone on to become one of the youngest Chief Crown Prosecutors in the country; not a bad achievement from such early beginnings. It must make it even more galling to be quizzed on her early days.
'I really don't see what I can say that Archibald Stubbs hasn't already told you,' she said with a return to her earlier brusqueness, as if anxious to get rid of them. 'It's all ancient history now. Do you really think–'
'It might be ancient history to you, Ms Probyn,' Rafferty told her sharply, pleased to be in the right for once. 'But I doubt the Walkers, the Masseys, the Dennington and the Figgs feel the same.' He had the satisfaction of seeing he had discomfited her. But, as always, she had a tart remark ready to put him in his place.
'You'll have plenty of suspects, then. I hope–'
Convinced by her cool gaze that she was mocking him, Rafferty broke in. 'That's right.' It had been one of her most frequent criticisms in the past that he threw his net too wide, employing little logic and less finesse in his conduct of cases, wasting precious resources in the process. 'The little girls Smith assaulted and their devastated parents for a start.' She had the grace to flush and drop her gaze.
'We've also got another angle.' He told her about the 'outing' letter Smith had been sent. 'Probably from a bunch of local feminists, but we've yet to look into that.'
Thankfully, she offered no more taunts, intended or otherwise, answering the rest of his questions without another clash. But, as he had expected, he learned nothing new and he stood up to go. 'If you remember anything else that might help, anything at all, we'd be grateful.'
'Of course.' Her gaze was steady, unblinking, but Rafferty felt he could read a message in the grey depths. It was the same as the one that Mrs ffinch-Robinson had less-subtly passed—you'll need all the help you can get.
With a brief nod, he made ungraciously for the door, leaving Llewellyn to observe the civilities.
***
AS LLEWELLYN CLIMBED into the car beside him, he placed a couple of tickets in Rafferty's lap. 'Ms Probyn gave me these for a performance of The Scottish play she's been acting in for the last week, but I think your need is greater than mine. It might help you to see another side of her.'
'I've seen more than enough sides of her already, thanks.' Still, he took the tickets, and stuffed them in his pocket. 'Took the wind out of her sails this time, at least. You could see she hated being questioned about the Smith case. I wonder how she really feels about it?'
He gave a cautious glance at Llewellyn before venturing a further comment. 'I know she could be said to have less reason to hold a grudge than Stubbs, Thompson or the victims and their families, but it did come right at the beginning of her career.' Ignoring Llewellyn's sceptical silence, he added, 'Maybe a person's first case, like the first love, stays in the memory.'
Llewellyn threw him a pitying look and Rafferty admitted, 'All right, maybe I'm indulging in a bout of wishful thinking. I agree the Smith case taught her a valuable lesson and could be said to have acted as a springboard to success, but—'
'Quite.'
'But,' Rafferty repeated determinedly, ignoring Llewellyn's tart rejoinder, 'You must admit she seemed pretty ill-at-ease to be discussing the matter.'
'I did notice. But then,' Llewellyn dryly added, 'so would I be in her position, if you were the one doing the questioning. You really must be the proverbial red rag to a bull as far as Ms Probyn's concerned.' He started the car. 'Lucky for you she's tethered by such admirable self-control.'
Rafferty subsided, muttering, 'Leave a bloke his fantasies, at least. They're all that keeps me warm these cold nights.' Especially the one where he banged her up in a cell for the night with a couple of the more downmarket toms for company. He bet that being cooped up with a couple of choice ‘Ladies of the Night’ for hours would make her lose that cool, legal manner that got up his nose so much.
As though determined to make Rafferty admit that there was another side to Elizabeth Probyn, as he waited in the driveway for a break in the traffic – always a long-winded business with Llewellyn – the Welshman commented, 'Did you notice that wonderful piano?'
Rafferty refused to be drawn. 'You mean that big polished brown thing by the window? No. Can't say I did.'
'It was a Steinway, that's all. Beautiful thing. The Rolls Royce of pianos.'
'Only the best for Ms Probyn. What did you expect her to have? An out of tune, second-hand job, with yellow keys and wonky pedals?'
The image put him in mind of his own youth and, softer-voiced, he added, 'Funny, you rarely see one now, but everyone used to have a piano when I was a kid. We even had one. God knows why, as none of us could play it, though my old man used to do a bit of a turn on his fiddle when he was merry.' He sighed. 'Happy days. Simpler, kinder too, in many ways. We all used to play out till all hours, especially in the summer holidays. Who would let their kids do that now? Everyone used to be able to leave their front door-key hanging from a length of string behind the letterbox. Try doing that now. You'd think prosecutors like Elizabeth Probyn would have a bit more sympathy with the public's anxieties.'
Wisely, Llewellyn said nothing and, now that the road was clear for well over a hundred yards in either direction, he pulled out and made for the refuge and Mrs Nye.
***
FORTUNATELY, MRS NYE was a woman unlikely to set Rafferty's teeth on edge. He had always found her sympathetic, understanding and willing to help. He hoped this occasion wouldn't prove an exception. She was a widow, well-set up financially, with time on her hands, and she used her money and her time in a variety of benevolent works.
She welcomed them in her usual friendly manner and led them to her office. 'How can I help you, Inspector?' she asked as they all sat down.
As the women he thought the most likely senders of the 'outing' letter were colleagues of Mrs Nye, Rafferty eased gradually around to the reason for their visit. 'We're investigating the murder of Maurice Smith,' he told her. 'I imagine you've read about the case?'
She nodded and clasped her hands firmly together, resting them on the cheap deal table she used as a desk. 'Forgive me for being blunt, but I don't see how I can help you. The women who come here are victims of violence not its perpetrators.'
Rafferty paused before he answered. He admired Mrs Nye, respected her. He didn't want to antagonise her. He hadn't wanted to antagonise Elizabeth Probyn, either, he wryly reflected, but he had still managed it. He reminded himself that Mrs Nye was not Elizabeth Probyn. Often, in the past, her persuasion had convinced a rape victim to make a statement, submit to a medical examination, and thus help the police get a conviction. He wanted her on his side. She was educated, fair-minded and most of all, she believed in justice. He appealed to that last trait now.
'It wasn't actually the women of the refuge we wanted to speak to you about.' She raised an enquiring eyebrow, and he continued with the point she had herself raised. 'You know, in many ways, I think it's fair to say that Maurice Smith was also a victim—of his upbringing. Apart from being physically unprepossessing, he came from a broken home, had an inadequate mother, a bullying step-father, little love of any description according to his police record. Is it any wonder he became what he did?'
Rafferty had expressed his views on criminal matters often enough to feel like a hypocrite as he voiced their opposite. But it was true that Maurice Smith had had little enough going for him. One of the 'underclass' politicians had taken to spouting about in recent years, Smith had undoubtedly been a victim of sorts. Thankfully, Mrs Nye was too polite to point out his volte-face. She pointed out something else, instead.
'But he still had a choice, Inspector. To rape—or not to rape. Oh, I know the case was thrown out of court, but even his own family – if the papers are to be believed – were quick to disown him as if they, too, believed he was guilty. I'm not condoning his murder. Like you, I believe in the rule of law.'
Rafferty shifted guiltily in his chair and wished his own belief in the law was as firm now as it had been twenty, even fifteen years earlier.
'If there's any way I can help you catch his killer I'll do it gladly.'
Rafferty was relieved she had made the offer. It made it easier for him to broach the subject. 'As you know, there have recently been a spate of rapist or suspected rapist ‘outing' cases in various areas of the country.' She nodded. 'We've had one or two locally. Maurice Smith was a victim.' He watched her. She didn't seem surprised at the news.
'‟Outing” a rapist is a long way from killing him, Inspector.'
Rafferty nodded. He dug in his pocket and laid a photo-copy of the letter Smith had received on the table. 'You said you wanted to help us catch Smith's killer. Quite possibly the people who sent him this had nothing to do with his murder, but I'm sure you appreciate that they need to be questioned. If you suspect any of your Rape Support Group members might have anything to do with 'outing' threats, I hope you'd tell us.'
Mrs Nye's expression was unhappy. 'Even if this,' she tapped a fingernail on the letter, 'has any connection with my members, it's a long way from murder,' she repeated. '‟Outing”, as I understand it, is to alert residents to potential dangers, to deter the rapist himself from further rape, and hopefully, encourage him to seek help.'
'And is it not also to terrorise him a little?' Rafferty added softly. 'To give him a taste of what it feels to be a victim?'
'I'm sure the motives are mixed.' She handed back the photo-copy. 'The people who carry out such acts are misguided, of course, but understandably so in view of the many lenient sentences handed out by the courts. I don't agree with such actions, but many people do.'
Rafferty felt she was getting away from him, was losing her sympathy, and was about to insist she give him some names, some indication if she suspected the involvement of any of her members, when from beside him, Llewellyn intoned softly, '"For evil to triumph, all it takes is for good men to do nothing".'
There was a long pause, then Mrs Nye said, 'Point taken, Sergeant.' Firmly, she added, 'Firstly, I have to say that I don't know anything—not for certain, but I'll tell you who I suspect.' She paused again. 'Three members broke away from my group several weeks ago, and I'm ashamed to say that these three did push for an official 'outing' policy. I believe they had gained the secret support and confidence of several disgruntled policemen in the area, so they had no difficulty in learning of the whereabouts of such men as Smith. They left to form their own group when I told them that, with or without the connivance of maverick policemen, I couldn't condone them breaking the law.'
Mrs Nye must have noticed their quickly exchanged glances at this, for before Rafferty could ask her, she added dryly, 'Oh, I don't know the names of the officers concerned. If I did, I'd give them to you. I approve of policemen taking the law into their own hands even less than I do of anyone else doing so.'
Because policemen usually had the necessary knowledge to get away with it, Rafferty guessed she meant. That was another area of concern for him in this case; the possibility that Smith had been murdered by a copper gone wrong. Because, if a professional, experienced copper like Stubbs had killed Smith, he stood a good chance of getting away with it. It was disconcerting that the thought didn't trouble him more.
Although one half of his troublesome Libran personality pulled him towards the underdog, which was undoubtedly what Smith was; the other half had an even stronger pull towards natural justice—in whatever guise it appeared. Between the two viewpoints, the policeman element came a poor third. God help him and his career, if Superintendent Bradley ever suspected it, for Bradley's zeal for convictions was nearly as strong as his interest in policing on the cheap.
***
UNFORTUNATELY, THE information Mrs Nye was able to give them was not conclusive. Although she had confirmed that her ex-colleagues had pushed for an official "outing" policy, she had no proof that they had actually gone ahead with it on their own. But she had given him their names, and at least Rafferty now had evidence of intention with which to confront them.
Their leading light was one Sinead Fay. 'Let's get round to her house,' he said. 'Mrs Nye seemed to think she'd be at home. I'll be interested to discover what cars Ms Fay and her friends drive, and whether we can get them to let anything slip over this ‘outing’ business. I'm more and more convinced they're involved.'
They got in the car and Llewellyn consulted his street atlas before pulling away from the kerb.
'When we've seen Ms Fay and her friends, we'd better make a start on interviewing Smith's victims and their families,' Rafferty told him. 'The sooner we do that the sooner we should be able to remove a few names from the list.'
'What about Stubbs and Thompson?' Llewellyn asked.
'Don't worry. I haven't forgotten them. Actually,' Rafferty glanced across, 'I'd like you to check out their movements.'
As far as he could tell from Llewellyn's poker-face, the Welshman welcomed this difficult task. 'I'll have to drive up to London to speak to Frank Massey, his daughter and ex-wife as soon as I can fit it in; maybe you could check out the policeman angle then?'
Llewellyn nodded.
'Only try to find out what we need to know by roundabout means if you can. I doubt Archie Stubbs would bother to thank me for it, but I feel we owe him and Thompson a bit of discretion. If they're innocent, and word got out that they had been suspects in a murder case, it could cause Thompson, as a serving copper, problems. We all know mud sticks and coppers are even more vulnerable to such taints.'
***
THERE WAS AN ALLEYWAY giving access to residents' parking running behind Sinead Fay's house. Rafferty stopped Llewellyn before he made for the gate, reminded him of their interesting discoveries at the rear of Smith's flat, and said, 'Let's take a look round the back. We may just learn something to our advantage.'
Rafferty wasn't totally surprised to find a Zephyr, the same car that Lilley had described as being seen parked near Smith's flat on the night he had been reported missing. How many of these old cars could still be running? He made a mental note to check it out. He doubted there would be more than a dozen in the whole area.
He was surprised an educated feminist like Sinead Fay – if she had been involved in Smith's death – should be so careless, should have so little idea how to protect herself. Of course, leaving aside the matter of the ‘outing’ letter for the moment, it might indicate her innocence of Smith's murder. Equally, she might simply be displaying her contempt for males, in particular males in positions of authority, like policemen.
Another possibility occurred to him. Did she subconsciously want to get caught? Using such an old and easily recognisable car when she was involved in dubious enterprises was certainly one way of drawing police attention and media publicity to your activities.
He quickly noted the registration number before peering in the driver's window. However, there was nothing to see and it was unlikely he'd be able to persuade a magistrate to issue a search warrant when their evidence was merely circumstantial. He tried the boot, but it was locked. Had Smith's body been transported in this? Like a fox scenting a rabbit, he felt his pulse quicken and the adrenalin start to flow.
