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RAFFERTY WAS IN HIS office when the phone rang later than afternoon. It was Dr Sam Dally with the post-mortem results on Keith Sutherland.
‘It’s much as I told you at the scene,’ he said. ‘There’s little to add except that it was a single-bladed knife, at least eight inches long. The victim died from the one knife thrust straight to the heart. Either our killer was an expert, or he got lucky.’
‘You say ‘he’, but—’
‘Could equally well be a ‘she’. Choose your spot and it would have gone through like a blade through butter as it seems to have done in this instance. The estimated time of death remains the same.’
‘And idea what sort of knife, Sam?’
‘A kitchen knife would be my guess. A carver, well sharpened. The sort you can find in any kitchen.’
Great, Rafferty thought. Just what we need—nothing to narrow it down at all.
After thanking Sam, he hung up, and sat staring broodingly into space. Maybe the kitchen knife ruled out Ian Sutherland and his friends. From what he’d seen of Sutherland’s place, it seemed unlikely to be much equipped for the culinary arts. Anyway, young men tended to favour knives with a more macho aspect than your average kitchen utensil for their assaults.
There again, maybe it was how he was meant to think, and his suspicions were being manipulated away from the young men. Either way, time and the continuing investigation would, he hoped, reveal the truth.
***
THE DAY WAS ANOTHER busy one with Rafferty setting the investigatory team in various directions. He spent most of it ploughing through piles of paperwork, trying to get a handle on anything that looked like a clue. But other than Mr Longman’s sighting of Ian Sutherland in the doorway of the gents’ toilet in the pub, there were none of these. They would speak to that young man again and find out what he had to say for himself. But, in the meantime, on with the paperwork. He found if he didn’t deal with it on a daily basis the molehill soon became a mountain.
***
THAT EVENING, RAFFERTY and Llewellyn did the rounds of Ian Sutherland’s other friends: Chris Tennant, Rick Wentworth and Sanjay Gupta.
They started with Tennant. He lived in an apartment in Elmhurst to the west of the town, overlooking the ancient priory ruins in Priory Park. Tennant must have a good job because not only was his home in an enviable position, it was also spacious and expensively furnished, from the ornate granite fireplace in the main room to the large and original artworks on the plain white walls. There was a huge expanse of window, extending the full length of one wall. It must make the room very light and airy earlier in the day. But now, all they could see was a magnificent sunset of swirling orange and crimson off to the left. Although the room’s electric lights were dimmed they couldn’t conceal Chris Tennant’s bloodshot eyes and deathly pallor. From his appearance, Rafferty concluded it must have been quite a night.
Poor sod, he thought as he felt a moment’s fellow feeling for a sufferer from the demon drink.
‘So what’s this about, Inspector?’ Tennant asked as he invited them to sit down and slumped in one of his deep leather armchairs. ‘You said something on the phone about Ian Sutherland.’
‘Yes sir. Mr Sutherland’s father was murdered last night. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it on the news.’
Tennant pulled a face. ‘I decided on a quiet day today, with no radio or TV. I’ve been nursing the most damnable hangover. Worse one I can remember.’ He paused. ‘You said Ian’s father was murdered. God, that’s awful.’ His shock seemed genuine. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Rafferty gave an understanding nod.
‘How did it happen?’
‘We’re not at liberty to reveal that at present.’ He quickly outlined the events of the previous evening.
Tennant shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. ‘What a shock. Poor Ian.’
‘He hasn’t contacted you at all today?’
‘Obviously not. So why are you here exactly? I don’t understand.’
‘I believe you were one of the party at Ian Sutherland’s stag night at The Railway Arms?’
‘Yes. Ian and I are good friends. We’ve known each other since school. How’s he taking it?’
‘He seems less shocked than you, sir.’
Tennant laughed, but immediately seemed to regret his humour. ‘That sounds like Ian. Not much of a one for showing his feelings. Inside, though, he’ll be gutted.’
‘I was under the impression that Mr Sutherland didn’t get on with his father,’ Rafferty commented, hoping to extract some juice from the tale.
‘They’ve had their ups and downs, like most fathers and sons. Ian always got on better with his mother.’
‘Tell me about when you left the pub. Did any member of the party lag behind?’
‘Lag behind? With the prospect of Tequila slammers spurring us on? I should say not. Certainly not as I recall.’ His lips pulled back as if he was about to give another laugh, but clearly he thought better of it because the laugh died on his lips. ‘Not that I can recall a lot about last night. Must have had a good time. My head certainly tells me I did.’
‘You’re sure no one lagged behind as you left the pub?’ Rafferty persisted. ‘To visit the gents', perhaps?’
‘I’m as sure as I can be, which isn’t to say one hundred per cent, unfortunately. I’m afraid you’ll need to ask the others. I can only hope they’re able to help more than I can.’ He frowned suddenly, then said, ‘Hold on. I’ve been very slow, haven’t I Asking if anyone lagged behind. God, you think Ian killed his old man, don’t you? Christ how can you think that? There might have been differences of opinion between then, but their relationship wasn’t that bad.’
‘At this stage we have to investigate every possibility, however unlikely. We need to eliminate him and you and the rest of your friends, that’s all. Once we do that, we can concentrate on those that remain.’
Tennant seemed shocked that he should be included amongst the suspects in a murder inquiry—far more so than had Gavin Harold or Ian Sutherland himself.
Rafferty stood up. ‘If you can’t help us any further, we’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.’
Tennant also stood up. ‘I really wish I could be more help. I just don’t remember much of the evening. Maybe more will come back if I think about it.’
Rafferty handed him a card. ‘Give me a call if it does.’
‘Of course. Let me see you out.’
As the apartment door closed behind them, Rafferty muttered, ‘Well, that was a waste of time. Let’s hope the other two can tell us more.’
Luckily, Rick Wentworth and Sanjay Gupta both lived near one another. Not that either of them proved any more helpful than had Chris Tennant. Both pleaded alcoholic amnesia, a handy crutch to save them having to lie. If, that was, they had any need to lie.
It was nearly nine o’clock by the time they came out of Sanjay Gupta’s flat.
‘This is going well,’ was all Rafferty could find to say. ‘Let’s hope we have better luck tomorrow.’
‘We’ve still to see the people on the list that Andy Strong drew up, and the rest of the team have made a start on elimination for those,’ Llewellyn reminded him by way of encouragement. ‘Not to mention Keith Sutherland’s former friends. Maybe they can add some illumination on the victim.’
‘Mmm. I’ve had it for tonight, anyway,’ said Rafferty. ‘They’ll just have to wait till tomorrow.’
They returned to the station, wrote up their reports and went their separate ways—Llewellyn home to Maureen and Rafferty back to his empty flat. He went via St Mark’s Road, which was where Abra had her flat. The place was in darkness and he tortured himself with wondering where she might be. And who she might be with. Abra wasn’t an early bird so it was unlikely she’d gone to bed. She was out on the town somewhere, with someone, enjoying herself, while he was behaving like some sad-git stalker.
Better get home, Rafferty told himself, in case she returns early and finds you watching her flat. That wouldn’t go down too well.
He turned the wheel and drove his lonely furrow home. He must just hope that something positive came out of their meeting on Sunday week.
***
RAFFERTY HAD THOUGHT the previous day had brought little promising in the way of evidence, though at least his wasn’t the only investigation doing a go-slow. But he discovered that this happy state of affairs had undergone a change when he arrived at the station.
Bill Beard was on desk duty in reception and said to him as soon as he set foot across the threshold, ‘You won’t have heard.’
‘Heard what? I’ve only just got in.’
‘About those electrical warehouse thefts. We’ve got a suspect. He’s being questioned in Interview Room one now.’
The news was unwelcome for more reasons than one of professional jealousy. ‘What was it? A hot tip from a grass?’
‘Yes. One of Tom Kendall’s snouts came up trumps. They’re looking for the other two suspects he named now.’
Rafferty wasn’t on the team that was investigating the electrical warehouse thefts. He’d been otherwise engaged with a murder inquiry when the first of the thefts had occurred in April. He’d have to catch Tom Kendal later and get up to speed. With his Ma as a probable buyer of stolen goods. He was in a definite need-to-know situation.
***
KEITH SUTHERLAND HAD been sixty-eight when he died, and though over retirement age, had still been working, so Rafferty presumed his ex-friends were of a similar vintage.
After he and Llewellyn had read that morning’s reports, they got themselves over to the first of these ex-friends, Gilbert Fortescue.
They found Fortescue in his front garden. He lived in a large, semi-detached with early roses rambling over the front of the house. Rafferty quickly told him the reason for their visit.
Fortescue was a small man, no more than five foot six, with a lined brown face that betokened a lot of time spent in the open air. He didn’t beat about the bush once Rafferty had finished the explanation for their visit, but said simply, ‘I suppose you want me to dish the dirt.’ It was a statement rather than a question and was said in a world-weary manner as though Fortescue had already responded to similar requests.
‘I’ve had the press here for half the morning,’ he told them. ‘God knows how they got my name or my former connection to Keith. I couldn’t get rid of them until I told them what they wanted to hear.’
‘Which was?’
’That my late and former friend was a randy devil where the women were concerned. I caught him trying it on with my granddaughter once, which is the reason we fell out. Shouldn’t crap on your own doorstep is my philosophy, which is what I told him. He didn’t like it. We had something of a shouting match and he stormed off. That was the last I saw of him. Not much of a one for apologising, Keith.’
‘When was this?’
‘About ten months ago. I came home unexpectedly one afternoon and caught him with my granddaughter backed into a corner and him slobbering all over her. He got a shock when I appeared, I can tell you. Cooled his ardour pretty smartly.’
It was an interesting new light on the victim. It also opened up other possibilities re the investigation. Maybe the father or husband of another of Sutherland’s fancies had taken even greater exception to his behaviour than had Fortescue.
‘And that’s the only reason you fell out?’
‘Reason enough I’d have thought. Particularly as my granddaughter was only seventeen at the time.’ Fortescue snipped his secateurs with unnecessary vigour at a withered section of rose bush. ‘Keith’s fallen out with a few friends over the years. Never one to respect boundaries, wasn’t Keith. Thought everyone’s wife and daughter were fair game. I’m surprised it’s taken till now for someone to attack him.’
Fortescue was able to tell them little more beyond the information that he had been at home with his wife on the entire evening of the murder. After checking with Mrs Fortescue, they left him to his roses, and went to see the next ex-friend on their list, one Randolph Hurley.
Hurley was as different again from Gilbert Fortescue as it was possible for one man to be from another. Although he, too, was around the same, mid-sixty age, he was tall, slim and lived with his wife in a top-floor flat in the centre of town. The flat was sparsely furnished, with the bare minimum of seating and a couple of thin but expensive-looking rugs on the floor. He had also been at home on the night Sutherland was murdered as his wife readily confirmed.
‘I heard about Keith Sutherland’s murder on the local news,’ Hurley volunteered. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. The man went out of his way to court angry reactions.’ He gazed at Rafferty over a pair of slim, gold-framed spectacles. ‘I imagine you must have learned that much by now.’
‘How do you mean that he went out of his way?’ Rafferty asked, keeping to himself the knowledge of Sutherland’s womanising.
‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but let’s just say he did his best to spread his attentions amongst the fair sex more than was prudent. Never good at taking no for an answer was Keith.’
‘Do you know of anyone in particular he had been actively pursuing recently?’ Llewellyn asked.
‘No. Not now. Haven’t set eyes on him in months. Though there was a time when he’d relish telling one all about his conquests. Thought me a dried-up old stick who needed titillating. I never encouraged him. Not that he needed encouragement. It was stopping him that was the problem. No, you need to speak to Carol Mumford. She’d been his mistress for years and knew how to keep tabs on Keith and his doings. She’ll probably be able to tell you who was Keith’s latest fancy and whether the husband had found out about it. I presume that’s the sort of information you’re after?’
Rafferty nodded. ‘And where can we find this Ms Mumford?’ he enquired.
Hurley told them, and Llewellyn made a note of the address.
‘Sutherland sounds to have been a right randy old goat,’ Rafferty observed as they got in the lift and returned to the ground floor. ‘Sounds like there could have been any number of irate husbands after his blood. Let’s hope this Carol Mumford kept as good tabs on her lover as Hurley said. Hopefully, we’ll get the names of a few other potential suspects.’
‘That’s if she’s willing to admit she was Sutherland’s mistress.’
‘Why wouldn’t she? It must be common knowledge. Hurley said they’d been an item for years. The old reliable. The one he came back to when he’d a knock-back from other women or their husbands made their objections painfully clear. Must be a heap of resentment there.’
Carol Munford lived not far from Sutherland, on the sixth floor of a block of flats, which gave her a bird’s-eye view of Sutherland’s house.
‘Nice and handy for a quick leg-over,’ was Rafferty’s comment. ‘Handy, too, for her to keep an eye on him and his comings and goings. Near enough to torture her, too, most likely, if she cared for him. Revenge of the woman spurned, do you think, Daff?’
‘As far as we know, he hasn’t spurned her, just kept her as his old faithful—there when the world became too hot for him. Still, not an enviable position for her.’
‘Bit like a comfort blanket.’
They got in the lift and pressed six. The lift creaked and groaned a bit, but eventually deposited them at the right floor. They got out and walked along to Number Sixty-Two.
Rafferty was surprised by the appearance of the woman who answered the door. He’d more or less expected a bleached blonde, blowsy barmaid type. But Carol Mumford was discreetly dressed in clothes that covered her up to the throat and down to the knees. She wore her light-brown hair in an elegant chignon and looked more like an old-fashioned school-ma’am than the long-term mistress of a man like Keith Sutherland.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, as was her nose, and she clutched a tissue tightly as if to guard against more tears. So far, she seemed the only person to genuinely mourn Keith Sutherland.
She invited them in. Her living room was decorated in soothing pastel colours and comfortable cream settees and looked very welcoming.
She sat down on the settee opposite them, her back wonderfully straight, and said, ‘I wondered when you’d get around to seeing me.’
‘We only learned of your existence this morning, Ms Mumford,’ Rafferty explained. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I understand that you and Mr Sutherland were friends for a number of years.’
‘Fifteen years, four months and ten days,’ she replied.
Rafferty judged her to be in her mid-forties, so she must have been around thirty when she became Sutherland’s mistress. It was a long time to play second fiddle to his wife and third, fourth and twentieth lady friends and to give up on a husband and children of her own. He had met such self-sacrificing women before, and was always astonished at their forbearance, astonished, too, at the men for whom they were willing to forego the normal pleasures of life. Martyrs, he considered them. Fools, too. But Carol Mumford struck him as neither. She seemed a self-sufficient woman, with her own home and presumably her own career. Being a mistress must suit her. At least she didn’t have to do her lover’s laundry, though it must have made for many a lonely Christmas.
‘You must have known Mr Sutherland well,’ Rafferty began.
‘Come, Inspector, let’s not be coy.’ She met his gaze directly and he was the one to look away. ‘I was his long-term mistress, not his best buddy, though the two are not, of course, mutually exclusive. I’m going to miss him.’
At least someone was. ‘How often did you see him?’
‘Usually a couple of times a week, sometimes less. It was a flexible arrangement.’
‘A lonely one, too, I should think.’
She lowered her head in acquiescence but didn’t break out into a bout of self-pity. She had chosen her path in life, her expression seemed to say, and she would live with it.
‘Did Mr Sutherland speak to you of any enemies he had? Or of anyone who might have threatened him?’
She smiled faintly as if she found his question slightly naïve. ‘No. Not the sort you mean, anyway. He’d hardly discuss the husbands he’d cuckolded with me. And yes, I knew about the other women. Not that there were as many as Keith would have liked. He tended to overestimate his own charms, particularly with younger women. Not that there have been so many of those lately. Age had taken its toll on Keith’s libido. He just went through the motions. I think he was more relieved than anything when his come-ons weren’t taken up. No, I don’t think it was an irate husband who killed him. Not now. If it had been even ten years ago, perhaps. What he did talk about was his business life, rivals, his partner, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh yes. His business partner. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Derek Fowler and Keith were in the same line – electrical wholesale – and they decided to team up. It worked well for twenty years, but the business has down badly lately. Too much competition from the far East.’
‘You said it worked well for twenty years. I sensed a “but”.’
‘Perspicacious of you. Yes, lately there’s been a “but”. The firm had a much larger concern interested in taking them over, buying them out. It would have meant a hefty sum of money for both of them. Plenty to retire on, which I understand is the reason Derek wanted to accept the offer. But Keith had no interest in retiring. He and Derek Fowler had a major falling-out a few weeks before Keith’s death.’ Again, she met Rafferty’s gaze squarely even if she had faltered slightly in mentioning Sutherland’s demise. She told him simply, ‘I think it possible you wouldn’t need to look much further than Derek Fowler for your murderer, Inspector. In his way, he could be as ruthless as Keith.’
It was an interesting theory and one Rafferty knew he must investigate as soon as possible. But he found it interesting also that Carol Mumford should be so ready to point the finger. Had she simply wanted to help them find the killer? Or had she some other end in view?
After all, she was now approaching fifty, and had played the role of Sutherland’s mistress en titre as Llewellyn had it, his comfort blanket, for fifteen years. Maybe she’d grown tired of the role and the younger extras dogging her heels. Maybe she’d put an ultimatum to Sutherland and been rebuffed. She wouldn’t be the first mistress to want revenge. Wouldn’t be the first to decide that if she couldn’t have her lover, no one else would.
All of which thoughts he confided to Llewellyn when they were back in the car, having ascertained that Carol Mumford had been at home alone the previous evening, as she must have often been.
‘But why would she choose to kill him now?’ Llewellyn objected. ‘Nothing would appear to have changed. We’ve no evidence that Sutherland had tossed her aside.’
‘No evidence that he hadn’t, either. Besides, she’s approaching the menopause for one thing. Women can get funny ideas in their heads when they’re a certain age. Maybe she was regretting all the things she’s missed out on – marriage, kids, a happy home life – and blamed her lover.’
‘Possibly. But she’s accepted her situation for years and must also have accepted that Sutherland wasn’t prepared to offer her more. Though I agree, she was over eager to give us Derek Fowler as a suspect.’
'’Mmm. Makes you wonder if she has reason to hold a grudge against Fowler.’
‘Perhaps we should visit Mr Fowler next and see if we can find out what it might be.’
‘Good idea, Daff. I do like a straightforward motive and given this nice little earner takeover that was in the offing, it would seem our Mr Fowler, at least, offers us that. Let’s get over there and see what he has to say for himself.’
Llewellyn pushed the fob in the ignition, engaged first gear and released the handbrake. Then he sat there for all eternity – or so it seemed to Rafferty – while he waited for a gap in the traffic sufficient for a herd of elephants.
Rafferty gritted his teeth in frustration. Sometimes, he swore Llewellyn did it deliberately, knowing his old maid driving style infuriated him. He refused to give him the satisfaction of remarking upon it. So he just ground some more enamel from his teeth in his anxiety to interview Fowler while Llewellyn dilly-dallied waiting for a hundred-yard gap in the traffic before he emerged from the spot.
