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LIZZIE GREEN HAD ALREADY been relieved of her role as Family Liaison Officer and had left the Sutherlands’ home by the time Rafferty and Llewellyn returned. In her place was Claire Allen, a young PC and the newest member of the team. Rafferty had a quick chat with her, but after she had updated them on her own and Lizzie Green’s time in the house, he had learned nothing significant. She ushered them into the living room and closed the door behind them.
There was no sign of Mrs Sutherland, but her daughter was still there, looking wrung out and heavy-eyed as if she had slept badly.
'My mother's asleep,' she told them as soon as they entered the room. 'The doctor gave her some sleeping pills and I insisted she take them.'
'That's all right, Miss Sutherland. We wouldn't dream of disturbing her. Perhaps you can answer a few questions?'
Susan Sutherland was fair like her brother. She wore her hair to the shoulders in the rats' tails look that seemed to be current amongst young women. Rafferty wondered how much she'd paid for the styling. The ends were dyed a darker colour than the rest; the style gave her the look of a racoon. Or did he mean a skunk? Some two-toned animal, anyway. She still wore the same clothes that she had thrown on the previous night, though he presumed she'd combed her hair since he'd last seen her. She seemed restless. Once she'd invited them to sit, she got up and wandered to the window and back again.
She ignored his request that she answer some questions and instead, as she came to a halt in front of Rafferty, asked if there was any news.
'It’s early days yet, Miss Sutherland. We’ll be sure to tell you as soon as we learn anything.
'Susie, please.'
'Little enough, Susie, as I said. Only that your brother's got a king-sized hangover.'
'Nothing new there, then.' She paused. 'As you said, I suppose it's too soon for any developments. My father only died last night. But you will tell us when you have some news? Any news.'
'Of course. You have my word. How's your mother been?'
She had perched on the arm of the settee she had been sitting on, but now she jumped up again. 'About how you'd expect her to be. She has just lost her husband.'
Rafferty nodded and returned to his previous request. 'Perhaps you could tell me something of your father? We need to know as much as we can about him his work, his friends, his enemies, if we're to catch his murderer. I understand he didn’t approve of your brother’s fiancée.'
Susie Sutherland pulled a face. ‘My father didn’t approve of much, Inspector. But he’d have come round. Eventually.’
‘I understand your father had his own business. Tell me about it.’
'Yes. He has – had – a partner. Derek Fowler. They were in business together for twenty years.'
They obtained Fowler's address and that of the business before Rafferty gestured her to go on.
'As for friends, my father didn't have a great talent for friendship. He had a greater talent for losing friends than making them.'
'If you could let us have a few names?'
She rattled several off with details of where they lived and went quiet again.'
'And enemies?' Rafferty prompted. 'Did he have any of those?'
Susie Sutherland slumped down again on the arm of the chair. 'No. I wouldn't call them enemies. Not the sort who'd kill him, anyway. As I said, he's got more ex-friends than most people, but that's all. I can't think of anyone who'd go as far as killing him.'
Rafferty had hoped for more. But at least he had a few names to be going on with. Maybe he'd learn more from Sutherland's business partner and from his ex-friends. It was clear that Sutherland Senior hadn't confided details of any potential killing enemies to his daughter—not that he’d really expected her to provide such information.
'What happens now?' she asked. 'My mother and I were wondering about the funeral.'
'We'll let you know when the Coroner releases the body. But it'll be some time yet. There'll have to be a post mortem and an inquest. I’m afraid violent death, such as your father’s, inevitably complicates matters.'
'I see. Of course. I hadn't thought.' She paused, then said, 'I suppose you want me to identify the body?'
'I...er...I thought perhaps your brother could do that.'
She gave a short laugh. Ian? I doubt if his stomach's up to it. I'm perfectly willing to do it. I can come now, if you like.'
Rafferty nodded. 'If you're sure.' She seemed positively blasé about the prospect of identifying her father, which struck him as decidedly cold-blooded.
'I'll just get my coat. Will the policewoman stay here in case my mother wakes up? I don’t want her to be left alone at the moment.'
'Of course.’
Susie Sutherland disappeared into the hall and returned wearing a thin raincoat of grey gabardine. ‘It won’t take long, will it?’ she asked, suddenly subdued as if just realising the unpleasantness of the task she had so readily taken on. ‘Only I would prefer to be here for my mother as much as possible.’
'No. It won't take long at all. Your father's body's at Elmhurst General. We can have you there and back in half-an-hour.'
'Good. Shall we go? I'd like to get it over with.'
She led them out the door at a brisk pace and after Rafferty opened the rear door of their car, she climbed in without a word, a silence she kept up all the way to the mortuary.
She was equally brisk when it came to identifying her father. After initially going pale and taking a gulp of air, she said, ‘Yes,' when the mortuary assistant drew back the sheet covering the body. 'That's him. That's my father. Strange', she said in a wondering tone, 'but he looks softer somehow. Less—' She broke off as if conscious she had been about to speak ill of the dead and was unwilling to voice the thought.
Less what, Rafferty wondered? Belligerent? Argumentative? Whatever she had been going to say was left hanging in the air. But one thing seemed clear: she was apparently in no deeper mourning for the dead man than her brother was.
It was rather sad. At least Keith Sutherland's widow had had the grace to take to her bed, though they still didn’t have any clear idea how she felt about her husband’s death.
They drove Susie back to her mother's home, left her there to cope as best she could with the assistance of Claire Allen and made for the station. Rafferty was keen to see if anything new had come in during their absence.
But when they arrived at the station and made their way to the incident room, they were quickly updated by Mary Carmody who told them that nothing valuable had so far come in, though they'd had plenty of the usual crank calls since the news of the murder had gone out on local radio and television.
'The statements from the pub customers and from the house-to-house inquiries are on your desk, sir.'
Oh joy, thought Rafferty, as he contemplated the prospect of the heaped piles of probably nothing very much that were waiting for him. 'Best get to it, then,' he said with a forced smile. 'Any news from Dr Dally yet? He said he hoped to do the post mortem this morning.'
Mary nodded. 'He rang. But he'll be doing the PM this afternoon rather than this morning. He wondered if he should hold fire till you get there.'
Same old Sam thought Rafferty. Looking for the sadist's pound of flesh. It was Rafferty's poorly kept secret that he loathed being present at PMs. The bloody dismemberment of yet another corpse being the last thing he ever fancied witnessing. 'I'll ring him.'
He headed for his office, trailed by Llewellyn. Soon, they were both deeply immersed in the statements, Rafferty only breaking off in order to ring Dally and make his excuses.
'Bottling it, Rafferty?' Sam Dally teased when he was called to the phone.
'Not at all. I'm snowed under with paperwork, is all. I'll look forward to your report. Must get on. Bye Sam.'
He replaced the receiver and gave a relieved sigh, but not before he heard the earthy sound of sardonic laughter echoing down the line. Bloody man, he thought. How’s he so unerringly able to pick up on my weak points? Telephone excuses made and laughter over, he reluctantly settled back to his reading. But his diligence was rewarded within another five minutes when he picked up the next statement on the pile.
‘Here, Daff,’ he said as he handed the statement over. ‘Take a look at that. It appears that Ian Sutherland may have some explaining to do. Him and Gavin Harold both.’
The statement, from a Mr Harry Longman, said he had been in the gents' of The Railway Arms close on eleven and was leaving when he bumped into Ian Sutherland in the gap between the inner and outer doors to the gents' toilet. His statement said it seemed as if Ian was undecided whether he was coming or going.
The witness claimed Sutherland had still been there when he had gone back to the bar.
'Wonder if this episode was before or after the landlord slung him and his friends and father out? We'll have to speak to this Mr Longman as a matter of urgency, see if we can't get his timing more precise. Andy said it was 10.55 p m when he threw them all out. It won’t hurt to get confirmation, of course, but Andy’s always been a stickler for time. Tends to know everything down to the last second. I bet his wife conceived all of his kids to the chime of the clock.’
'Would he have long, though, once this witness had returned to the bar, to run round to the car park, locate and kill his father, and catch up with his friends?'
'How long would it take? No more than a few seconds, as long as there was no hesitation or holding back. In with the knife and off. As quick as that. Yes, we definitely ought to have another word with the hung-over Ian Sutherland. But before we do that, I want to speak to his other three friends and see if one of them drops him in it. But in the meantime, I'd like us to break the back of these statements. I don't want to leave them till we've got another mountain of the blasted things to get through. You know what Bradley’s like. He’ll come down on me like a ton of bricks if I leave the paperwork undealt with while I chase after clues.' And Rafferty was determined not to give ‘Long Pockets’ Superintendent Bradley the satisfaction of having an excuse to find fault.
During the next three hours, they buckled down and worked their way through the piles of paper, though they found no more nuggets like that from Harry Longman.
Still, thought Rafferty, they'd had their reward. The only trouble was that by the time they questioned him again, Ian Sutherland was likely to have recovered from his hangover and regained his wits. He'd already unwisely admitted that there had been antagonism between himself and his father. But how likely was it now that he'd let slip anything else? Indeed, he'd probably backtrack and declare that they'd misunderstood the bad feeling between himself and his father. But it couldn't be helped. And whatever Sutherland said, Rafferty knew what he'd heard and how it had been expressed, however much Sutherland might, in sobriety, try to gloss over the words used.
They would just have to wait and see what else was out there to be discovered.
