| |
THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE Mary Carmody and Hanks drove up to London to see Frank Massey, Rafferty, with no great hopes, went through the motions of checking Jes Bullock's alibi. He wasn't surprised when Bullock's friends confirmed his story. According to them, they had all been at the flat of Mick Coffey, another of Bullock's cronies, from about seven-forty till just before nine-thirty on Thursday night, when Bullock had left for the pub and his usual drink.
Rafferty was disinclined to believe them, but he couldn't prove they were lying. Still keen to give Bullock his comeuppance, he had despatched Llewellyn and Lilley to question Coffey's neighbours. But again, as with their inquiries about Smith, the icy weather had kept most people indoors, so their questioning was fruitless. No one had seen Bullock either arrive at the flat or leave it. Nor had anyone seen or heard his car even though it was a sad and rusty Ford, and, according to Bullock's own neighbours, had an engine as wheezy as an asthmatic's chest.
Still keen to charge Bullock with something, on their return, Rafferty sent Lilley out to try again.
'You don't want me to go with him?' Llewellyn asked.
'No. I've got another little job for you,' Rafferty told him. He nodded to Lilley and the young officer went out. 'You're coming with me to see Stubbs and Thompson to find out what alibis they come up with.'
'I thought we'd already concluded that they hadn't—'
'I know we've managed to talk ourselves out of suspecting that they helped Massey,' Rafferty broke in. 'But we haven't done the same if the scenario changes to them acting without Massey. He's not the only one still under suspicion, not by a long chalk.'
'He's the only one to be caught out in a lie,' Llewellyn reminded him.
'Exactly. The only one to be caught. But if the liars and thieves in the population only consisted of those caught out, what a wonderful place the world would be. Come on. Let's get it over with.'
However, it wasn't so easy to catch out Stubbs and Thompson in lies. Prompted either by innocence or canniness, they claimed to have recently discovered a mutual interest in angling and that they had gone night fishing the previous Thursday evening. Although they had no other witnesses but each other to back up their story, instead of telling tall fishermen's tales to add verisimilitude, each was smart enough to say they had caught nothing, thus ensuring that freezers empty of fish didn't weaken their lies.
‘If they were lies,’ Llewellyn had felt obliged to put in as they left Thompson's home after he had backed Stubbs' story.
'Bit of a coincidence that they should both take up such an uncomfortable hobby recently. And in the middle of winter, too,' Rafferty retorted. Although far more favourably disposed towards them than to Bullock, Rafferty couldn't persuade himself to believe them either.
Frustrated by stalemate on several fronts, Rafferty hoped their visit to the Figg family might produce something more than yet another exercise in futility. Unfortunately, even with the assistance of "Curly" Hughes, one of Burleigh's most experienced officers, they had been unable to get the Figgs to shift from their previous dogged stance.
Of course, as Rafferty was aware, families like the Figgs knew how to use the law to their advantage; they'd had plenty of practise at it if what Hughes had told them was anything to go by.
They had finally managed to speak to Tracey Figg. She had turned out to be timid, and, as Rafferty had feared, had not only looked to her father for the answer to each question, but, in general, appeared so cowed that she would have made a hopeless witness even if they succeeded in getting anything valuable out of her. But her parrot-like repetitions of her father's promptings was all they got and, like a cow chewing the cud in a favourite part of the field, she couldn't be shifted from it.
Only nineteen, she already had three children—all with different fathers if the range of skin tones were anything to go by. She had a collection of bruises, too, which to judge by their coloration, were fairly recent. Of course, in a family like the Figgs, who were likely to hit first and ask questions after, if at all, violence was probably a way of life; the bruises didn't necessarily indicate that she had been persuaded to collude in the concealment of murder.
The interviews, like Llewellyn's previous efforts, were conducted in the noisy squalor of the family's living room. And, as Rafferty had prophesied, one of the children had thrown up over Llewellyn's trousers just as Tracey had made her first stumble in the obviously rehearsed tale. And when the nauseous toddler had started up an unearthly wailing which set his siblings and cousins up in sympathy, they had beaten a hasty retreat to the relative peace and freshness of the yard.
Rafferty paused long enough to check if any of the vehicles differed from those which Llewellyn had noted on his previous visit. They didn't. And none of them had been noticed as being parked near Smith's flat on the evening of his murder, either. Not that that proved anything, of course. That was the trouble, Rafferty fretted as he followed Llewellyn and Curly out of the Figgs’s yard. Proof — of anything — was in very short supply.
'I did warn you what they were like,' Llewellyn muttered in aggrieved tones as he dabbed ineffectually at his trousers with a wad of tissues. 'I wouldn't be surprised if they coached those children to vomit to order.'
'Very likely. You must admit it's an effective ploy. That and the bawling got rid of us pretty sharpish.'
Hughes, brought along as the ‘local expert’ on the Figgs and their tricks, and reduced to red-faced fury when he had proved inadequate to the task, suggested hauling the family into the station one by one. After mopping his gleaming bald head, he said, 'we should be able to get 'em for something. If nothing else, those dogs of theirs look vicious. They're sure to have bitten someone.'
Like Llewellyn, Rafferty had had enough of the Figgs. Anyway, given the family’s tendency to violence, he doubted they'd get anyone to come forward even as a witness to the viciousness of the Figgs’ dogs let alone anything else, so he vetoed the plan. 'Didn't you say the sons have a reputation for being handy with knives?'
Curly Hughes nodded.
'Would you like to get on the wrong side of such a tribe? If I was one of their neighbours, I'm damn sure I wouldn't. No. Thanks for the offer, but we'll leave it and concentrate on the Elmhurst end. At least, if the Figgs are involved, any witnesses we turn up there are unlikely to know them or their reputation and would be less likely to be shy at coming forward.'
After dropping Curly Hughes off, they made their way back to Elmhurst. At the station, Llewellyn disappeared into the toilets to wash the Figgs from his trousers. Rafferty's rumbling stomach beckoned him to the canteen for a bacon sandwich and a consoling mug of tea. It was there that Llewellyn found him twenty minutes later.
'Mary Carmody just phoned,' he said. 'Bad news, I'm afraid.'
Rafferty grunted, 'That makes a change,' and carried on sipping his tea.
'Frank Massey's gone missing.'
Rafferty's tea slopped over the canteen's chipped table. He'd been complaining that the case had come to a standstill and he wanted something to break. But this wasn't quite what he had had in mind. Llewellyn's choice of words penetrated and he demanded sharply, ‘You said "missing". You don't mean—?'
'No. He's just missing. An entirely voluntary disappearing act, according to Sergeant Carmody. When Massey didn't answer her knock, she persuaded his landlady to let her and Hanks into his room. His passport's gone and so have most of his clothes. His car is also missing. No one seems to have seen him since about eight last night, when his landlady saw him drive off.'
Rafferty was relieved to learn that even if he'd despatched Carmody and Hanks to collect Massey when they first got the truth from Great Mannleigh nick, it wouldn't have made any difference. Now, at least, he realised why Massey had told them such a stupid, easily disproved lie. It had given him time; time to get away. And that was all he had wanted.
'What about his books?'
'Books?' Llewellyn frowned. 'She made no mention of books. Is it important? If so, I can get her on the radio.'
'It'll keep. It's just that he was a book-lover, like you. They were his escape from reality, if you like. Or, perhaps,' Rafferty corrected, as he recalled some of their titles, 'they were a form of hair-shirt—a constant reminder of the past and his own failures. And if he's left them all behind, maybe it's because he no longer has a need for them in that way.'
'They're symbolic, you mean? That the failures are a thing of the past, not the present.'
'Could be.' Rafferty swallowed the rest of his tea at a gulp, thrust back his chair and returned to his office, Llewellyn at his heels. When he got there, he glanced at the wall clock. ‘One o’clock,’ he muttered as he did some swift calculations. 'If Massey left yesterday evening he's had, what? Seventeen hours or so to make good his escape. He could be anywhere. Still, at least his doing a bunk would seem to let his daughter out of the running, wouldn't you say? He'd hardly skedaddle and leave her to face the music alone if she was the one to kill Smith.'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Sergeant Carmody said she spoke to Alice Massey again when they discovered the girl’s father was missing and she now believes Alice had nothing to do with Smith's murder. The girl's mother says they spent that evening playing scrabble and that Alice certainly didn't slip out at all. She was extremely shocked when she realised the reason for Carmody's questions.
'Another point in the girl's favour is that when Sergeant Carmody went back first thing this morning to check the bus and train staff again, no one recognised the descriptions of Alice or her mother. They all swore they didn't see either of them travelling to Elmhurst on Thursday evening, at least. Jaywick's a small place and out of season strangers would be likely to be noticed and remembered.'
Rafferty nodded. Mary Carmody was a good officer. And, even without Frank Massey's disappearance, if she was now convinced that Alice had had nothing to do with the murder, he would have been inclined to trust her judgement. Another point against Alice's involvement, he now realised, was her anger. If she had either killed Smith herself or known that her father had finally avenged her, that anger would surely have subsided. It hadn't. It was still bottled up inside her. One less ball to juggle, Rafferty muttered to himself.
'Do we have any idea how much money Massey had with him?' he asked.
'Carmody's checking that now.' Llewellyn paused. 'She did learn one thing that might be significant. According to Massey's wife, he and Elizabeth Probyn used to be very close at one time. They were all three at college together, I gather, though in different years. She claims her ex-husband and Elizabeth Probyn had an affair then. The implication being that Ms Probyn might have helped him get away.'
Rafferty frowned. 'I can't see Elizabeth Probyn risking her precious career because of some ancient sentimental attachment between her and Frank Massey.'
'Not so ancient, according to Mrs Massey. She seems to think that her ex-husband and Ms Probyn might recently have become friendly again. If it's true he might have confided his intentions to her.'
Rafferty thought it unlikely and said so. 'Still.' He tapped his pen against his lips. 'We've got to cover all avenues, though I can't say I relish the prospect of questioning our esteemed prosecutor about her love life. How the hell do you tactfully ask her if she's into aiding and abetting murder suspects to do a bunk?'
Llewellyn, aware that Rafferty frequently had trouble in the diplomacy department said, 'Perhaps I should—?'
'No.' Rafferty shook his head. As he explained to Llewellyn, he felt he owed her the courtesy of questioning her himself. 'Not that she's likely to appreciate it. What about Mrs Massey herself? I don't suppose she had any idea where he might have gone? Or the daughter?'
'None. Massey said nothing to either of them. And though Mrs Massey didn't have any idea where he might be, according to Carmody, she did express the hope that it was somewhere very warm.'
Rafferty grinned and joked, 'Love, that many splendored thing, hey? Where does it all go? Sounds like she shared my old man's views on holy wedlock; that two hours before you die is time enough to get hitched.' He stopped abruptly, appalled to find himself talking about love with Llewellyn. It was not a sensible move. Llewellyn's next words confirmed it.
'Clever trick to manage,' Llewellyn muttered and added half to himself. 'Maybe I should bear it in mind.'
'No,' Rafferty hastily answered. 'The two hours before you die philosophy is only for cynics like my old man and worn down women like Mrs Massey. You're too young and innocent to follow such a creed. Anyway,' he finished with a forced cheerfulness. 'It's too late. Ma's bought her hat.'
Fortunately, Llewellyn didn't take the opportunity to confide any other thoughts he might have on love, splendored or otherwise. And Rafferty, already hung about with an uneasy feeling that his well-intentioned nose-poking had dragged a divisive Mrs Llewellyn too early into the lovers' embrace, hastily broke the silence before it encouraged such confidences.
'To get back to the task in hand,’ he said briskly. ‘I want the number of Massey's car circulated. If he's left the country as seems likely, it may be dumped at one of the air or sea ports. Get on to them, Daff. You know the drill. We need to know if Massey has left the country, and if so, where he's headed for. Does he speak any foreign languages do you know?'
'Only a smattering of schoolboy French, according to his wife.'
'What about family or friends? Any contacts abroad?'
'None. Unless Elizabeth Probyn knows of any. There are the Walkers, of course—the family who emigrated to Australia after their daughter killed herself. Might be worth getting in touch with them, or at least with their local police. Their daughter was another of Smith's victims; an even more tragic victim than the rest. It could create a bond.'
'I'd rather not trouble the Walkers at this stage. They've been through enough. For the moment just let their local police know the situation. Send them a description of Massey and ask them to keep an eye out for any sudden visitors to the house. It's a long shot. I doubt that Massey would be able to find the money to get to the other side of the world, especially at Christmas, when it's high summer and the most expensive time of the year to get there.'
'Unless Elizabeth Probyn helped him.'
Rafferty's eyes narrowed. 'You've changed your tune. Just a few days ago you thought the sun shone out of her—'
'No,' Llewellyn corrected. 'I merely pointed out that she's not the ogre you seem to think her. It's called being impartial.'
'You can call it what you like,' Rafferty butted in. 'I've got another name for it altogether.'
Llewellyn's thin lips became thinner and Rafferty, regretting his taunt, didn't clarify his statement. Instead, he muttered, 'If you'll stop putting the temptation to be otherwise in my path, I'll try to be impartial.'
I'll even try to keep my cool when I question her, he added silently to himself. Though, considering the delicacy of the questions he had to put to her and her likely reaction, he didn't hold out much hope of succeeding.
After flicking through his desk diary and checking Elizabeth Probyn's office number, he dialled and spoke to her secretary. The secretary told him her boss had taken a few days' leave. He shared the news with Llewellyn, joked, 'perhaps she’s done a bunk with Massey.’ When this sally met with a poker face that still managed to reprove, Rafferty added, ‘the secretary suggested I try her at home. She even gave me the number. Funny, I'd have sworn I was on the black list.'
But Elizabeth Probyn wasn't at home, either. Rafferty cocked a hopeful eyebrow at Llewellyn. 'Maybe I was right after all and she has gone off with Massey.'
Llewellyn didn’t bother to point out that Rafferty's impartiality had died a quick death; the tiny downward quirk of his lips said it for him. However, he did say he thought it unlikely.
So did Rafferty, but, try as he might, he found it impossible to entirely abandon the fantasy that the ever so correct Elizabeth Probyn had finally blotted her copybook and eloped with one of the criminals she seemed so fond of.
'Didn't her cleaning lady say her daughter's in hospital? She'd hardly take off, if so.'
'I'd forgotten that.' With a regretful sigh, Rafferty put the tattered rags of his fantasy behind him. 'I bet she's at the hospital now.'
He picked up the phone and dialled the number for Elmhurst Hospital where he guessed Elizabeth Probyn’s daughter would be found. After fighting his way past the robotic instructions to press this or that button, he got through to Admissions and managed to speak to a human being. But they had no record of a Miss Probyn as a patient.
'Probably at some fancy private clinic,' he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. 'I suppose it will wait till she returns home.' Anyway, he realised, the likelihood of Ms Probyn Senior having any involvement in Massey's disappearance was slim at best, and huge quantities of wishful thinking were unlikely to fatten it.
Putting Elizabeth Probyn to the back of his mind, he busied himself with overseeing their inquiries into Massey's whereabouts, checking out the usual mistaken identifications of car and man that such a search always brought.
It was after eight before he gave Elizabeth Probyn another thought. But when he tried her number again, there was still no answer. 'Maybe, she's run off with Massey, after all,' he muttered to himself.
But, true to form, Llewellyn immediately robbed him of such a self-indulgent thought. 'I've just remembered,' he said. 'She's appearing in The Scottish Play at the church hall. If you recall she gave me two tickets. I imagine you'll find her there.'
Rafferty nodded. He'd forgotten. Llewellyn had tossed the tickets to him, evidently of the opinion that Rafferty was in greater need of exposure to culture than himself. What had he done with them? He rummaged in his pockets, finally finding them in the lining where they had fallen through a hole and been idly screwed into a ball by fidgety fingers. He smoothed them out. 'Bingo. It's the last night. I'll get along there, then.'
He glanced at the clock. With any luck, he'd catch her in the interval. He hoped so, anyway. He didn't relish having to sit through a great dollop of Shakespeare in order to question her.
Llewellyn, ever keen to encourage Rafferty's limited interest in the arts, suggested he did just that. 'Although they're only an amateur group, they're very good. I saw them last year in their production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Why not stay and watch the play to the end? It is only for a few hours and if Massey turns up you can be back here in a matter of minutes. It's not as if anything else is breaking.'
'You know I'd like nothing better, Daff,' Rafferty hastily assured him. 'But, as Ma says, life shouldn't be given over entirely to the pursuit of pleasure. Duty must come first.'
To forestall any acerbic comment from Llewellyn concerning this previously unsuspected rectitude, Rafferty picked up the mobile phone from his desk, stuffed it in his torn pocket and headed for the door. 'You can contact me on this if anything comes up.'
***
AS RAFFERTY DROVE OFF, he thought about Frank Massey. Things looked black for him, all right. The man was a fool to do a bunk; but was he a guilty fool? The question occupied him all the way to the church hall, which took some time as he hit every red light on the way.
To his annoyance, he arrived too late for the interval and the doorman, a self-important Jobsworth, refused to let him wait backstage.
'Can't do that,' he was told, as, with arms folded over the brown overall, Jobsworth's tiny, piggy-pink eyes subjected him to a top-to-toe examination. Rafferty realised he'd failed the test when Jobsworth told him tartly, 'Get too many so-called theatre lovers back here already. Light-fingered the lot of them. Now I don't let nobody back here unless they're vouched for. More than my job's worth. You got anybody to vouch for you?'
Rafferty rallied and whipped out his warrant card. 'Only the Essex Police Service.'
Jobsworth nodded sagely, as if he'd suspected as much. It soon became clear he had no higher opinion of police honesty than he did of the theatre lovers’.
'Had some of your lot in here last week,' he informed Rafferty. He sniffed and looked down his nose. 'Unruly bunch. Discovered my spare uniform cap was missing after they’d left. You can be sure I'll do my best to make certain they can never hire this hall again.'
Rafferty gave up and conceded victory to Jobsworth. Resigned to either waiting in the car or sitting to watch the play, he realised that if he didn't want to risk missing Elizabeth Probyn altogether, he'd have to do the latter.
The hall was packed. He spotted one empty seat halfway down a row on the right-hand side. Accompanied by tuts from the theatre-lovers, he crept towards his seat, throwing apologies left and right as he stumbled over feet. Subsiding into his chair with a sigh of relief, he squinted at his neighbour's programme.
As Llewellyn had reminded him, they were doing Macbeth, the play that dare not speak its name and he stifled another sigh. For although he had never seen the play, he'd heard enough about it from his highbrow sergeant to know that it contained plenty of blood and gore; just what he needed in the middle of a murder inquiry.
He gazed up at the stage, but under the actors' wigs, costumes and stage make up, he couldn't pick out Elizabeth Probyn. Eventually, after another sideways sneak at his neighbour's programme, he twigged that she was playing Lady Macbeth, whose character had already committed suicide. Thank God for that, anyway. Steeling himself for further tuts and muttered, 'Well, really’s!', of the usual British theatre audience, he got up and made for the door, dispensing more apologies as he went.
Luckily, Jobsworth had taken himself off to be obnoxious elsewhere and Rafferty had no trouble finding the dressing room of the female members of the cast. He knocked on the door and Elizabeth Probyn opened it. Surprisingly, she was alone. Unsurprisingly, she didn't seem pleased to see him.
'I didn't have you down as a theatre lover, Inspector,' she coolly commented as she turned back to the mirror and sat down. 'Did Sergeant Llewellyn bring you?'
'No.' Irritated by the implication, especially as it was true, that he'd have to be brought to culture like a horse to water, he instantly bridled and then checked himself. 'He gave me the tickets though.’ He forced an unwilling grin. ‘He knows I'm a sucker for culture.'
'Really?'
Too late, he realised he had laid himself open to an enquiry as to why such a self-proclaimed culture-vulture would voluntarily abandon the last part of the play. Fortunately, if she had the impulse to ask such an awkward question she managed to control it and simply resumed collecting various tubes and jars and packing them away in a bag.
'You're here on an autograph hunt, perhaps?' she dryly suggested. 'Or did you just want to congratulate me on my performance?'
'What?' Rafferty stared at her. 'Oh. Yes. Sorry.' Not having actually witnessed her performance, he judged it tactful to lie and hope she wouldn't question him. 'You were very good. Actually,' he began, 'I wanted to speak to you about another matter.' He paused, unsure how to go on, and only too aware of her prickly personality. He always seemed to have the knack of rubbing her up the wrong way and, given the subject matter, this encounter was even more likely to follow the usual wrong-rubbing course than most of their previous ones.
'Another matter?' she encouraged.
'Er, yes.' Maybe he should have let Llewellyn tackle this one after all and be blowed to professional courtesy. But it was too late now, so, taking a deep breath, he blundered on. 'We've just heard that Frank Massey, one of the suspects in the Smith murder case, has done a runner.'
In the mirror, her eyebrows rose and Rafferty deduced from her expression that she had guessed why he was here and wasn't going to make it easy for him. 'So? What has that to do with me?'
‘His ex-wife told us you and Massey had been quite close at one time and had recently become reacquainted. I wondered—'
She didn't give him time to finish. 'You wondered whether I might know where he had gone? Really, Inspector, the implication of that leaves me quite breathless. Let me assure you that I remember my position and the responsibilities it carries even if you do not.'
'I'm sorry. But you must see that I had to ask?'
She dropped the make-up bag and turned to face him. 'Why? In case I still carried a torch for my first love, you mean?' The idea seemed to amuse her, for she gave a twisted smile. 'What a romantic heart you must have, Inspector Rafferty. I'd never have guessed. I wish I could help you, but I have no idea where Frank Massey is. He didn't confide in me. He certainly didn't ask for my help.' She turned back to the mirror and consulted the watch sitting on the table. 'Now, is that all? Because I'm due to go and take the curtain call with the rest of the cast.'
He had little choice but to accept his dismissal. Anyway, he was inclined to believe she was telling the truth. She looked weary, with dark shadows under her eyes and as if running off with Frank Massey was the furthest thought in her mind. What would a woman like Elizabeth Probyn want with a wreck like Massey, anyway? She would, he told himself, probably despise him even more than she does me.
Still, he had a feeling she was keeping something back, something that perhaps she didn't consider important enough or sufficiently relevant to mention. The trouble was, he doubted she would be co-operative if he were to question her further now. Pausing at the door, he nevertheless made a tentative attempt to encourage her confidences.
'If you should happen to think of anything, anything at all that might help us, I'd be grateful. Whether it concerns Frank Massey's long-forgotten haunts, any long-lost friends he might have in foreign places, or anything else.'
She inclined her head imperiously, as though she were still in the role of Lady Macbeth. 'As I said before, Inspector, I wish I could help you. I really do. Naturally, if anything occurs to me, I'll contact you.'
She adjusted her queenly headdress and softly added, 'What a pity the police didn't do their job properly all those years ago. I know that, inexperienced as I was, ex-Inspector Stubbs thought he could lay all the blame at my door for the failure to secure a conviction. He certainly tried his best to do so.
'But if he hadn't botched Smith's interview in the first place, he'd wouldn't have had to look round for a scapegoat in an attempt to salvage his career, and he'd have saved everyone a lot of grief into the bargain; the victims who came forward as well as the one who didn't; Frank Massey, who wouldn't now be on the run; you, who would avoid the embarrassment of asking me insulting questions; and me, who'd be saved the indignity of answering them.'
Touché. Thankfully, the ringing of his mobile phone saved him from ignominious dismissal, and gave him the excuse he was looking for to make a more dignified exit. Waving the ringing phone at her stiff, mirrored face, he decamped into the corridor only to find Jobsworth bearing down on him.
***
IT WAS LLEWELLYN ON the phone. They'd found Massey's car. It had been abandoned in the port town of Harwich.
'Harwich,' Rafferty muttered. He scowled as he strained to hear Llewellyn over Jobsworth's loud reproaches. 'Whose ferries operate from there?'
'I've checked,' Llewellyn told him. 'Sealink and Scandinavian Ferries both run services from there; Sealink to the Hook of Holland and the Scandinavian line to Esbjerg and Gothenburg.'
'Could be he's headed somewhere else altogether. Left the car at Harwich to fool us and took a train to Portsmouth, Dover, New Haven, Felixstowe or some other sea or airport. He could still be just about anywhere.'
'I gather Ms Probyn wasn't able to help you then?'
Rafferty grimaced. His answer was brief and to the point. 'I'll be back there in five minutes. You've spoken to the ferry staff?'
Llewellyn confirmed it. 'None of those we've so far been able to question noticed a single man fitting Massey's description. Of course, they're busy at this time of the year and I don't imagine they had time to notice individuals, anyway.'
'All we can do is keep plugging.' He paused and tried to wave Jobsworth away. Apart from the oddness of Smith letting Massey into his flat at all, there was still another question he remembered that had yet to be answered. Hopefully, he asked it. 'I don't suppose that neighbour of Smith's has found the note with the registration number of that Zephyr yet?'
He supposed right.
'No. I rang him earlier. A Christmas party was obviously in full swing though, so I doubt either he or his wife has tried too hard.'
Rafferty swore. 'What's the matter with the bloody man? Surely he realises how important that piece of paper could be? Get on to him again, Dafyd. Put the fear of God into him if you have to, but make him promise to have a thorough look for it first thing tomorrow morning.'
Llewellyn said he'd try and with that Rafferty had to be content, though putting the fear of God into anyone wasn't exactly the Welshman's strong suit.
He broke the connection, put his face close up against the still expostulating Jobsworth and muttered a few choice Anglo-Saxon expletives before he strode out to the car park and got in his car, his only satisfaction the fact that he'd managed to miss the bulk of the wretched play.
