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LIZZIE GREEN AND LLEWELLYN had still not returned by the time Rafferty and Mary Carmody got back to the station. After a quick refreshments break in the canteen, Sergeant Carmody set off for Jaywick to check out what Alice Massey had told them.
Rafferty, left alone with his troubling thoughts, tried to keep busy. He got on the phone to Great Mannleigh station to corroborate Frank Massey's statement, but the two officers who had picked him up were off duty, and the Custody Sergeant to whom he was put through was interrupted by wild, drunken shouting before he could check his records. Yelling down the line, 'I'll get back to you,' the officer put the phone down.
Rafferty sighed and glanced at the clock. He'd chosen a bad time to call. Christmas drinking started early, and like Elmhurst, Great Mannleigh’s charge room would be cluttered with the human detritus of pub brawls and domestic violence; invariably worse during the season of goodwill, their numbers swelled by the seasonal revellers. He sighed again as he realised it might be some time before the Mannleigh Custody Sergeant was able to get back to him.
He reached in his pocket for the bag of boiled sweets that had earlier that year taken the place of the habitual cigarettes. However, the bag was empty. Aware that if his urge for lemon sherbets wasn't quickly appeased the older habit might resurface and he’d go on the cadge amongst the smokers in the station, he pulled on his coat and headed for the newsagent’s around the corner from the High Street.
It was a still afternoon, the air crisp but with the bite of a wild animal and, after buying a fresh supply of tooth-rot, Rafferty was anxious to get back to his warm office. He'd only walked a few yards when he heard music coming from the High Street. He retraced his steps and turned the corner.
A Salvation Army band had struck up beside the Christmas tree and, in spite of the icy greyness of the weather, a crowd had gathered. Illuminated by the lights of the tree, the breath of each rose like a little phantom and seemed, as it mingled with the rest, to encourage a warm camaraderie to which Rafferty's current low spirits were drawn.
The crowd, encouraged by the band's enthusiasm and probably a tot or two of something even warmer, were soon singing along to the carols with gusto. When the band struck up with God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Rafferty, who loved a good singsong as much as most bad singers, forgot his problems for long enough to join in, belting out the words in his off-key voice. It was only when the opening bars of Mary's Boy Child, Jesus Christ gentled the mood that he recollected himself.
His conscience demanded: What the hell are you doing, Rafferty? It reminded him: You're in the middle of a murder investigation. You've no business to be singing carols. He crept away, hoping no one had recognised him.
When he got back to the station he tried to concentrate on reading the reports that had accumulated in his absence. But, apart from noting that no one had come forward to say they had seen what time Smith had arrived at the Bullocks' flat last Thursday evening, and that Sam Dally had rung back to confirm that some of Smith's bruising had occurred ante-mortem indicating he’d been in a fight, he took little in.
Try as he might to stop it, his mind kept returning to what Mary Carmody had said. Was he committed to finding Smith's killer? Or would he prefer just to go through the motions and report a failure at the end of it? Part of him couldn't help feeling that bringing Smith's wretched life to an end was the best thing for all concerned, Smith included. Yet, the other half of him chimed in, is anyone, no matter what the provocation, entitled to act as judge, jury and executioner?
Backwards and forwards his internal arguments went. No final answer presented itself, but one thing he was sure of was that if he couldn't put himself heart and soul to the task of catching Smith's killer, he should consider asking to be taken off the case. Or resigning.
But, before he took such a step, he needed advice. To ask the opinion of any of his family would be worse than useless. Their own petty foibles apart, the Raffertys were staunch members of the hang-'em and flog-'em brigade. They would think that Smith had got what he deserved and that the family’s token copper shouldn't strain himself to catch his killer.
The only other person he felt he could ask for advice was Llewellyn. He wondered what the Welshman would say if he went to Bradley and asked to be taken off the case. But there was no comfortable answer there, either. He didn't have to ponder the question for long before concluding that, Llewellyn, although understanding of human frailties, was also a staunch believer in right and wrong, the rule of law and personal responsibility and he would think he was trying to avoid his own responsibility. He would be sure to remind him that a policeman's job didn't just consist of catching vicious killers, but also the perpetrators of the less clear-cut, more grey-shaded crimes, like this one.
And whether black, white or any shade in between, Llewellyn would believe their duty as policemen was clear. Rafferty wished he found it easy to separate the instinctive, human reactions from those of the law enforcer in the way that the Welshman seemed able to.
Although still niggled by Mary Carmody's question when Llewellyn returned, to Rafferty’s surprise, his usually unprovokable sergeant provided a little light relief. Even better, it seemed that something had dragged the Welshman's mind from the gloomy contemplation of his love life; for now, Llewellyn's thinly-handsome face quivered with something close to outrage.
'That family!' Llewellyn never swore, but the way he ground the words out from between clenched teeth was the closest he was likely to get. 'They shouldn't have charge of a dog, never mind a child. Yet they seem to have a dozen or more of each roaming around that yard, and dogs and children both look hungry and neglected.’
Rafferty gaped at him. He'd never heard Llewellyn go in for such sweeping judge-mentalism; that was more his style. He just managed to hold back a grin. 'I take it you're talking about the fruitful Figg family?'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Do you know what one of Tracey Figg's uncles said to me?' he demanded. 'At least.' He frowned. 'I presume from his age and the family likeness that he's one of her uncles. He said that if Smith hadn't sexually broken her in—his words, someone else would have. He even suggested she must have taken to rough loving—his words again, as she always got herself knocked up, made pregnant, by her more violent boyfriends. It never seemed to occur to him that the early assault and subsequent feelings of worthlessness experienced by so many rape victims might go a long way to explaining her choice of partners.' Llewellyn threw up his hands. 'What do you do with such people?'
'Not a lot you can do,' Rafferty told him. 'Though, if it'll make you feel any better, you can take your frustration out on my expensive new chair. Giving it a good kicking always does the trick for me.'
Superintendent Bradley had ordered the new furniture. Since being made Great High Wallah-Wallah in the Masons, his self-importance knew no bounds. And, although the cost had strained Long Pocket's natural parsimony, pride had dictated that the GHWW and his acolytes must be suitably seated. Frankly, even though they whizzed about with a far more satisfying vigour than most of the force, Rafferty doubted the chairs would catch many criminals.
'Families like that are sent to try policeman, Dafyd,' he soothed, when Llewellyn had calmed down a little. 'They just don't think in the same way as you or me. I doubt if thinking as such occupies much of their time at all. In my experience, such people operate on a different level altogether; one of instinct and appetite.'
'You make them sound like so many wild animals.'
Rafferty shrugged. 'They're human enough. Maybe I should say they haven't evolved – too much in-breeding perhaps accounts for it – you've only got to look at some of our so-called aristocracy to see the problems that can cause. Anyway, with people like the Figgs, the usual civilising influences seem to pass them by. How do you instil a sense of responsibility, morality even, in people who have no real understanding of either?'
Unwillingly reminded of his earlier brooding on where his own responsibilities lay, Rafferty leant back in his chair and determinedly concentrated his thoughts on the Figgs. 'I remember when I was young, there were two or three families on our Council estate like the Figgs. They all left school — when they went at all — without having learned much that employers would regard as useful. Yet they were all canny enough. The men could all figure out, without benefit of pen, paper, or calculator, what their winnings should be from a four-way accumulator. And the women were all adept at bamboozling whatever petty official the Council sent to enquire why the rent hadn't been paid.'
His grin escaped his previous firm control. He couldn't help it. Part of him admired people who managed to get the better of authority. He suspected he shared something of the Figg outlook himself. 'I bet, if I asked any of the current breeding stock, they could all tell me exactly what they were entitled to from the Social, whether it's a new cooker or a cage for the budgie.' He paused consideringly. 'So, apart from learning that compassion is their middle name, what else did you discover?'
'That's just it.' Llewellyn slumped in his chair—a less grand version of Rafferty's, but still impressive. 'I learned absolutely nothing. The men, those who didn't just sidle out as soon as we arrived, all seemed to be called either Jack or Jason. And the women all called themselves Mrs Figg, whether they wore a wedding ring or not. The Jack who elected himself as spokesman insisted they were all at home on Thursday evening, watching pre-recorded films on their enormous television. Though, I'd have thought, given the size of the screen, the quantity of Figgs, and the smallness of the room, there would scarcely be space for half of them. Lizzie Green was of the opinion they'd need to draw up a rota in order to eat, sleep and watch television.'
'What about the daughter, Tracey? Did you manage to see her?'
Llewellyn scowled as he was forced to admit, 'I've no idea. She might have been there—there were several young women around the right age, but it was impossible to ask them anything. They all seemed to have two or three toddlers and babies scrambling all over them and half of the offspring were screaming. And the smell!' Llewellyn gave a fastidious shudder.
Rafferty had wondered about the advisability of sending the bandbox fresh Llewellyn to see the Figg family but, hard-pressed, he’d sent him anyway. Llewellyn of course, would have been so busy stopping sticky fingers pawing at his beautiful suit that he'd have been only too glad to leave; even the high moral ground Welshman had his weak points. Rafferty grinned inwardly at the picture he’d conjured up and appeased with, ‘never mind. We'll go and see them together tomorrow.'
Like a bloodhound on downers, Llewellyn's whole face seemed to droop at the news. Rafferty was just about to remind him that it was all part of a policeman's lot, that he'd said himself that they had to take the rough with the smooth, when, just in time, he remembered that Llewellyn had had no part in his earlier internal dialogue with his conscience on duty and responsibility. Still, the family had to be investigated, and he was damned if he was going to be the only one the babies were encouraged to throw up over when the Figgs tired of being questioned.
'It might be a good idea to borrow someone from Burleigh nick next time. Most of the Figgs are, I gather, regular customers there. If nothing else, they'll be able to tell us who's who.' Rafferty paused. 'What about the Denningtons? Any joy there?'
With every appearance of relief, Llewellyn turned to the other family. 'They seem to be out of it. Mother and daughter were both at a pantomime at a London theatre that evening. The neighbourhood got up a coach party and most of the street went. The coach didn't get back to Burleigh till after midnight. I checked and they were both on the coach back from London and their neighbours vouched for their presence all evening. So they had no opportunity to kill Smith.'
Rafferty nodded. Llewellyn's outburst had made him forget to ask about Stubbs and Thompson, and now he did so. 'Any joy on the policeman front?'
Llewellyn met his eyes steadily. 'Depends on your point of view,' he told him. His words indicated that he had guessed some of Rafferty's inner battle. 'Archibald Stubbs goes over to his friend Thompson's house regularly once a week, usually on a Thursday, though it depends what shift his relief is on.'
'I take it he went there on Thursday last week?'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Though, according to a witness I spoke to, neither man remained there. They went out in Thompson's car around eight that evening—the neighbour saw them go past his house and they still hadn't returned by nine-thirty.'
Rafferty pulled thoughtfully at his ear. 'You didn't alert Stubbs or Thompson to our interest in them?
Llewellyn shook his head. 'All Stubbs will find out is that I called to see him again, which is something he must have been expecting anyway. And I doubt he'll even give the chap I spoke to the chance to tell him that much, as he seems to keep the neighbours at arms' length. As for Thompson, all he's likely to learn is that a stranger admired his house and was told it was unlikely to be open to offers.'
'Good. If they're innocent, I don't want to make things difficult for them. Thompson is still a serving copper, after all. But now we know they remain in the running we're going to have to question both of them more thoroughly. We've given them every consideration so far, but it's time to take the gloves off. I want to know where they went that night and why, and police officers, or no, they'll answer.' He paused and gave Llewellyn a faint grin. 'Working with you might not have given me the wisdom of a Solomon, Daff, but you must admit my grammar's improving.'
Llewellyn elected for a “no comment” on the improvement or otherwise in his grammar and Rafferty's grin faded. 'Let's hope ex-Inspector Stubbs appreciates the grammatical quality of my English when I question him again.' Quickly, Rafferty related what he had learned in London and added, 'I'm waiting for Great Mannleigh nick to get back to me.'
Mary Carmody put her head round the door. 'I've just got back from Jaywick, guv. Alice Massey and her mother were there all right, from late Thursday afternoon to the Sunday morning. They were staying at a guest house called “Sunnyside”. Mrs Johns, the owner, confirmed Frank Massey's visit and the times he arrived and left, though she couldn't swear to it that neither Alice or her mother didn't slip out later without her noticing.
'It's only a short walk to Clacton along the seafront. They could have got a train from there to Elmhurst. There's also a bus service from both Jaywick and Clacton to Elmhurst. I asked the staff on duty at both the train station and the bus depot, but no one recognised my descriptions of Alice or her mother. I'll check again when the staff shifts are due to change.'
Rafferty nodded.
'DC Lilley's in the canteen waiting to see you, guv. Shall I send him in?'
'Only if he's got good news,' Rafferty told her, only half jokingly. He hated this stage of a case when all the ends still seemed to be dangling, with various suspects with poor or non-existent alibis. He was beginning to feel like a juggler with too many balls in the air and too few hands; constantly in danger of dropping one of them.
Lilley's news turned out to be neither good nor bad, only more of the same. Smith's neighbour had still not found the piece of paper with the registration number of the Zephyr.
Rafferty decided he could no longer delay checking out the other registered Zephyr owners and he told Llewellyn to get it organised. 'Though it'll probably be a waste of time.' He stuffed a sherbet lemon in his mouth and crunched. 'Kids tend to borrow their parents’ cars without always bothering to ask or even mentioning their borrowing afterwards. And if they find out that Mr Plod the policeman is investigating Daddy's Zephyr they'll keep shtum for sure.'
The phone rang and Rafferty broke off his complaints. After listening for a while, he asked a few questions, then ended the call and looked at Llewellyn. 'That was Great Mannleigh. They confirm they picked up Frank Massey last Thursday. Though at nine-thirty, not seven-thirty as Massey claimed. He was drunk as a lord, and kept shouting something about proving he was a man after all.'
Llewellyn raised an elegantly arched eyebrow. 'He didn't say what form this machismo test took, I suppose?'
'No, worse luck. Unfortunately, he threw up all over the arresting officer's boots before he could confide in him further. He went rather quiet after that. Could be something, could be nothing. Maybe no more than that he'd got lucky with some woman. Still, at least now we know he had ample time to kill Smith.'
Llewellyn nodded and made the same observation that Rafferty had made in London. 'Great Mannleigh is only a short drive from Elmhurst. Certainly short enough for a man looking to prove his manhood.'
Rafferty repeated the thought that had already teased him several times. 'Makes you wonder just how friendly Massey became with Stubbs and Thompson, doesn't it? We already know that Smith had received an ‘outing’ letter. They would be aware any attempt to use the police computer to locate Smith could be traced back to them, so would need to use other means of finding him.
'Could be they got a sympathetic female friend to ring the Social and persuade that young clerk to part with Smith's address and then passed it on to the breakaway Rape Support Group. If so, why would either of them draw the line at passing the same information to Massey? Especially as Massey was already a friend, and a hard-done-by friend at that. Especially as, like Stubbs and Thompson, the case concerned him so intimately.'
'If Stubbs and Thompson were involved and had lent Thompson's official uniform to gain Massey entrance to Smith's flat, they would hardly have left him to cover up his own tracks,' Llewellyn objected. 'His stupid lie would seem to indicate that if Massey did kill Smith, he didn't have police help to do it.'
'That's true.' Rafferty felt relieved when Llewellyn pointed out the obvious as he hadn’t relished the prospect of arresting either Stubbs or Thompson. Trouble was, he wasn't over-keen on proving anyone guilty. 'So, whose help did Massey have? Smith's door was undamaged, remember. Yet, if Massey had been alone, he'd have had to break his way in. Smith certainly wouldn't have opened the door to him.'
As he'd mentioned to Llewellyn, Massey was an intelligent man. He'd been out of prison for eight years; if he'd been determined on it, he could have traced Smith long ago. So why hadn't he? Was it only lack of money? Against that, he came back to the fact that Massey had lied to them. Why else would he do that?
Round and round went Rafferty's thoughts, when, into the middle of them popped the words: maybe he was protecting someone. Which led him back to the earlier reluctant suspicions that Mary Carmody had forced him to confront. Into his mind came a picture of Massey's daughter, Alice; petite, young-looking for her age, and with all that pent-up emotion waiting to be released. He tried to push the picture out again with more words, but it stubbornly refused to budge.
'I wondered earlier whether Massey might have gone in for the double-bluff of again failing to provide himself with an alibi, but thinking about it, I really don't believe – even after his prison education – that the man has the type of mind for such deviousness. Which means either that he's innocent. Or guilty, but unconcerned about getting caught.'
'The latter's unlikely, I would have thought,' Llewellyn commented. 'Could he take another prison sentence?'
'Maybe.' Reluctantly, Rafferty confided his suspicions concerning Alice Massey. 'If he felt that by doing so, he was protecting someone even less likely than himself to survive in prison—his daughter, for instance. You haven't met Alice Massey, but Mary Carmody will confirm that she seems such a mass of bottled-up rage she could easily go looking for revenge on her own account. If she did, I think Frank Massey would sacrifice himself in order to protect her. He’d lost her love, her respect. For Massey, such a sacrifice would be a way to regain both.'
He shoved another sweet in his mouth and sucked fiercely. 'Let's face it, she would have had a much greater chance of getting Smith to open his door than Massey would. She's small, dainty—just the way Smith liked 'em. And she looks much younger than eighteen. Maybe she sweet-talked him into opening the door and he was so flattered he let her in.'
For a change, Llewellyn didn't immediately apply his usual cutting logic to shoot his theory down in flames. All he said was, 'Do you want them both picked up for questioning?'
Rafferty's conscience juggled with the opposing demands of natural justice and duty. Duty won, but only just. However, still squeamish, he postponed its application. 'It's a bit late to drive up to town. Massey will keep till morning.'
Perhaps Llewellyn suspected Rafferty's internal battle where this case was concerned, for he immediately said, 'And the daughter?'
Rafferty struggled a bit more, before deciding. 'Just Massey. He's the one we've found out in a lie. If we get nothing from him, we can speak to his daughter again. Mary Carmody and Hanks can pick him up.' He consulted his watch and got up from his comfortable chair. 'And while it may be too late to journey to the great Metropolis, it's still early enough to take a little drive to see Jes Bullock. Even if he didn't kill Smith, he's certainly hiding some guilty secret. And now that we've got Sam Dally's report on Smith's bruises we might be able to use it to lever it out of him.' The thought was a satisfying one.
