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AS RAFFERTY HAD ANTICIPATED, he woke with a sore head after his night out with Mickey. And as he gradually came to, a feeling of being hard-done-by also surfaced, as he remembered Abra’s failure to turn up the previous day. What was she playing at? He’d thought their reconciliation was all but in the bag. Now he didn’t know what to think.
As soon as he got up, in order to cure the hangover, he drank a pint of water and swallowed some painkillers. Still, he thought, as he headed for the shower, he and Mickey had had a good time the previous night. The film had been action-packed all through, and afterwards they'd bumped into some mutual friends in the pub. He'd had to take some joshing about his single state, but it had all been good-natured and he'd shrugged it off with a few wisecracks of his own. He should make a point of going out with Mickey more often. Perhaps he and Abra had got too bound up with each other, too insular. It wasn't healthy.
Out of the shower, feeling better than he had first thing, he dressed and made himself some breakfast, forcing it down with a pint mug of tea. Then, set up for the day ahead, he made for the station and whatever awaited him there.
However, he wasn't prepared for the discovery that what awaited him was another murder.
'Any connection to our current case?' he asked Llewellyn as soon as the Welshman had told him the news.
'It seems possible, seeing as our murder victim is Carol Mumford, Keith Sutherland's mistress. Though uniformed seem to think it possible it’s a burglary gone wrong.'
'Bit too much of a coincidence for my liking. Who found her?'
'One of her neighbours. Noticed the lock was smashed, and the front door ajar, when she passed at eight forty-five this morning on her way to work.'
‘Okay. Let’s get over there. How was she killed?’ he asked as they left the office and headed for the scene.
''Beaten round the head with the proverbial blunt instrument.'
'Back of the head or the front?'
'Back.'
'So it seems likely she knew her killer and trusted them enough to turn her back. Maybe the lock was broken after the event to make it look like a burglary. Anything missing? Place trashed?'
Llewellyn unlocked the car, and they both got in. Once he was settled behind the wheel, seat belt on, Llewellyn said, ‘Uniformed say the living room and bedrooms were both in disarray, but it looked superficial, so maybe you’re right and it was made to look like a burglary.’
The Scene of Crime team was drawing up as they arrived at Carol Mumford’s block of flats. Rafferty said a few hellos, got into his protective gear, and followed them up in the lift.
He took in the damaged lock, splinters of wood on the floor, inside and out, then he entered the flat. The body lay in the hallway on its front, with the head towards the living-room door.
It seemed that he was right, and Carol Mumford had known her killer and had felt no qualms about turning her back on whoever this person was. They’d checked out her background as part of the investigation into Keith Sutherland’s murder. Carol Mumford worked as a personal assistant to one of the executives of a supermarket chain that had moved its headquarters out of London to Elmhurst a few years ago.
Rafferty had rung them and spoken to her boss, and had learned that Ms Mumford was well thought of, with good relationships with the other staff. She had earned a decent salary, so if she had been Sutherland’s killer it didn’t seem likely that it had been in order to get her hands on the measly fifteen grand he’d left her, even if she’d known about it. But even if she had good relationships with her workmates, it was clear someone had hated her–the wounds to her head, Rafferty saw as he hunkered down by the body, were deep, through to the bone.
It seemed she had been caught unawares, and had been entirely unsuspecting of the blow, as there were no defence wounds to her hands as there perhaps would be if she had sensed the blow and had half-turned to ward it off. There were some bloodstains on the right-hand wall. It looked as if Carol Mumford had staggered and slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood.
Who could have known Carol Mumford well enough and have reason to hate her, but be unsuspected by her of violent intentions? There surely couldn’t be too many suspects, not once they’d spoken to her family and friends and hopefully ruled most or all of them out.
Rafferty rose and stepped back from the body to allow Lance Edwards, the photographer, to do his work. He went into the living room and looked around. It seemed like uniformed were right. For although bookshelves had been emptied on to the floor and drawers in the bureau pulled out and dumped on the furniture, there seemed to have been no attempt made to hunt for valuables as several small silver knick-knacks had been left untouched. He crossed the hall. It was the same in the bedroom. The double bed was made up. A large jewellery box opened, but its contents only scattered across the bed rather than stolen. What thief would leave behind the several expensive looking rings and other pricey-looking items of jewellery? Even if such a thief had been disturbed, it would take no more than a few seconds to grab and stash the jewellery. No. Someone had tried to make this attack out as a burglary that had gone wrong and made a poor job of it. That hinted, to Rafferty, at a rank amateur, rather than someone with criminal experience.
He explained his reasoning to Llewellyn, who had followed him into the bedroom.
Llewellyn nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’
‘I know I am. I want the victim’s life gone over with a fine toothcomb. Any tittle-tattle, any antagonisms, I want to know about them. Set the team to questioning the neighbours. But before you do that, have a hunt for personal papers and family addresses.’
Dr Sam Dally arrived then. As soon as the photographer had finishing taking pictures and video of the scene, he knelt down in the narrow hall and got to work.
‘What do you think, Sam?’ Rafferty asked after Sam had been about his business for five minutes.
‘What do I think? I think this carpet could do with being an inch thicker. It’s playing havoc with my knees.’
‘Old age, Sam. It’s creeping up on you. But to get back to the victim—can you give me a rough time of death?’
It was now ten in the morning. Sam Dally lived about twenty miles from Elmhurst and it usually took him some time to get to a local scene. Luckily, this morning, he’d already been on duty at Elmhurst General.
‘My rough estimate would be that the woman died between eleven last night, and two o’clock this morning.’
Rafferty nodded. ‘I take it that the earlier time is more likely?’ That would make sense. Carol Mumford’s bed hadn’t been slept in, which indicated the earlier time—late evening rather than the middle of the night. Apart from any other considerations, a woman living alone would be wary enough of a knock on the door at eleven at night, so a two in the morning knock would be unlikely to get an open-door welcome.
But Sam was unable to confirm it either way, and Rafferty had to be satisfied with the timescale he’d been given.
The team was already questioning the neighbours, but, so far, as Lizzie Green reported to Rafferty, no one had seen or heard anything, not even when Carol Mumford’s front door was splintered, and the lock smashed. Ms Mumford’s neighbour on one side must have gone out early and would have to be questioned later. Maybe they’d heard something, seen someone, and would be able to help them pinpoint the time of the attack more accurately.
He spoke to the neighbour who’d noticed the smashed lock and who had found Carol Mumford’s body. She was waiting in one of the cars but was able to tell him no more than he’d already learned from Llewellyn. He thanked her and headed back to the scene to pick up Llewellyn. There was nothing more he could do there but get in the way. He and Llewellyn went back down in the lift and crossed to the car. Llewellyn had found Carol Mumford’s handbag with an address book, which would be useful. They needed to contact her next-of-kin and any friends who could fill them in on her life. He found Hanks and handed him the address book and told him to return to the station and make a start ringing the numbers in it and finding out what he could.
Meanwhile, Superintendent Bradley would expect to be brought up to speed, so they also returned to the station. Rafferty found the Super in his office.
‘So there’s been another murder,’ he said by way of greeting as soon as Rafferty had knocked and been bidden to enter.
‘Yes, sir. And it seems clear they’re connected.’
Bradley harrumphed a bit and then admitted, ‘Could get. Better get over and speak to the grieving Sutherland widow, then, hadn’t you? Strikes me she had reasons enough to bash the mistress’s brains in.’
‘I was just about to, sir.’
‘Well, don’t let me keep you, man.’
Gladly, Rafferty left the Super’s office, rounded up Llewellyn and headed for the Sutherlands’ house.
Mary Sutherland was at home, though there was no sign of Susie, her daughter. Rafferty asked where she was.
‘Susie’s in the middle of setting up her own graphic design company. It’s a new venture for her. She had a meeting with the bank, this morning and with some potential clients this afternoon. I told her to go rather than cancel. She can’t put everything on hold, no matter what’s happened.’
Rafferty nodded. ‘Never mind. It was you I wanted to speak to, anyway.’
‘Again? I’ve told you all I can. I don’t know what else I can say.’
‘This isn’t about your husband’s murder, Mrs Sutherland. This concerns the murder of a woman named Carol Mumford.’ He saw a fleeting recognition of the name flash into her eyes and as quickly vanish. ‘Did you know the lady?’
‘Know her? No. I don’t believe so.’
‘Mrs Sutherland, maybe you know already, or maybe you don’t, and if you don’t, then I’m sorry to be the one to break the news to you, but Carol Mumford was your husband’s mistress and had been for the last fifteen years.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Are you saying you were unaware of the relationship?’
She stared at him for some moments but didn’t answer immediately. Finally, she stuttered, ‘Fifteen years? No. You must be mistaken. I would have known.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t know?’ Rafferty found this difficult to believe. Over fifteen years a man would have grown careless. Surely, a woman would have to be blind, deaf, stupid not to at least suspect? He kept his voice level and asked, ‘You had no idea?’
‘Of course I didn’t know. I would have done something about it if I had.’
Someone had certainly done something, though whether it was Mary Sutherland, one of her children acting on her behalf, or someone else whose identity they had yet to discover, Rafferty couldn’t say. He asked her where she had been the previous evening and into the early hours of this morning.
She told him, ‘I was at home. I’ve just been widowed, Inspector, in case you’ve forgotten. I don’t feel inclined to go out on the town.’
‘You were home all night?’
‘Yes. I went to bed early and took one of the sleeping pills my GP gave me. My daughter was here all night, too. You can check with her.’
‘I’ll do that. Thank you. Sorry for disturbing you again.’
‘You didn’t disturb me. I’ve only been wandering around the house like a lost soul. I don’t seem to know what to do with myself since Keith...since Keith...’ She broke off and didn’t bother to finish what she had been going to say. Instead, in a firmer voice, she asked, ‘Was there anything else? Only I thought I’d prepare Susie some lunch before she heads off for her afternoon meeting.’
‘No. Thank you, Mrs Sutherland. ‘There’s nothing else. We’ll say good day to you.’
Back in the car, Rafferty said, ‘Either woman could have slipped out once both had gone to bed. It’s interesting that Susie Sutherland should be setting up her own business now. She’ll need money for that. Handy that her father’s so conveniently died.’
‘There’s still probate to be gone through. That’ll take some time,’ Llewellyn pointed out.
‘Even so, maybe Susie knew she was going to be coming into money sooner rather than later. Makes you think. Especially when you consider that Keith Sutherland seems to have been careless with his keys. I remember on the night of his murder, Mrs Sutherland thought I was her husband ringing the doorbell, and shouted to ask if he’d forgotten his keys again. If he’d made a habit of doing so – which would seem to be implied by his wife’s question – it would mean that Susie might have had access to his will and the file with his life insurance details.’
‘So might his wife and son. The partner, Mr Fowler, too, perhaps. He’d have been a trusted visitor.’
‘True. Any one of them or all of them together could have known they were down to inherit a fair lump of cash from the life insurance, even without the business inheritance, if they really were aware that Sutherland’s death lost them any share of that.’
‘It’s mere supposition, though. We’ve no proof either way and Ian Sutherland, at least, seems to have an alibi for the night of his father’s murder.’
‘Mmm. One that I’m not altogether happy with. Alibied by a few drunken friends, most of whom admitted their memory of the night was addled by alcohol. For all we know, they’ve just claimed Ian Sutherland was with them all the time since leaving the pub out of a feeling of misplaced loyalty. No,’ Rafferty said decisively, ‘Ian Sutherland is not off the suspect list just yet. Not by a long chalk.
‘Maybe we ought to find out something more about the family’s finances? See how each of them was situated before the murders. For instance, in Susie Sutherland’s case—a new business venture eats money. She’d need to pay out for advertising, website design, premises and so one. None of which comes cheap. Then there’s Ian. Weddings don’t come cheap, either. And I should know,’ he muttered. ‘And given that his father didn’t approve of the bride, it’s unlikely that Keith volunteered to get a second mortgage to pay for it all.’
‘Would either of them kill Carol Mumford, though?’ Llewellyn queried. ‘I’m presuming you still think both deaths are connected.’
‘I do. Don’t you?’
‘Yes. Too much of a connection between the two for them not to be.’
‘My sentiments exactly. That being the case, we should proceed from there.’
They had previously questioned Susie Sutherland as to her whereabouts at the time of her father’s murder: like her mother, she claimed to have been at home alone. And for Carol Mumford’s murder, her mother said she had been with her at the family home.
‘Get the team to check with the Sutherlands’ neighbours, Dafyd. We might strike lucky and come upon a mum with a sleepless baby or a pensioner whose arthritis was playing up. Someone must have noticed if there was any movement from Susie, her mother or brother. If so, I want to know about it.’
While the rest of the team were busy questioning the Sutherland’s neighbours, the two members of the squad set to looking into the local muggers had turned up a couple of possibles for Keith Sutherland’s robbery and murder: Dwayne Heller and Nick Bolsover. Both had convictions for robbery with violence, both were drug addicts and known to habitually carry a knife. More to the point, neither had been able to come up with a confirmed alibi for the time of Sutherland’s death.
The possibility that one of the pair was the murderer didn’t gel with Rafferty’s feeling that Sutherland’s killing had been a personal thing, but he knew he had to check it out. So he had Timothy Smales and Hanks, who had come up with the two names, bring Heller and Bolsover in for questioning. The two youths were practised criminals and knew their way around the law and the provisions of PACE—the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Both insisted on having a solicitor present during their questioning.
Dwayne Heller was your typical street thug. As well as convictions for robbery with violence, he’d had a couple of convictions for drug dealing—until someone tougher had warned him off.
Heller looked the low-life he was. To make himself appear tougher, his hair was aggressively scalped to within an eighth of an inch. It gave him an aura of butch menace, which was clearly the look he desired.
‘Hello, Dwayne,’ Rafferty greeted him as he entered the interview room that afternoon with Llewellyn hard on his heels. ‘Still the tough guy who mugs old ladies for their pensions?’
Dwayne seemed discomfited at this accurate description, but although he glanced at his solicitor, he said nothing.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Rafferty taunted. ‘I heard you had quite a powerful chat-up line with the more mature lady. What was it you to your last victim? Oh, yes, ‘Give me your money, you old bag, or I’ll stick you.’ Your mother must be very proud.’
‘Leave my mum out of this.’
‘Why should I?’ Rafferty sat down in the chair across the table from Dwayne. Llewellyn seated himself opposite the solicitor. ‘I’d say she’s very much in it. She raised you, after all, and must take some of the kudos for the way you turned out.’ He turned the tapes on before Dwayne’s solicitor had a chance to complain and did the normal recital of who, what, where and when for the machine. ‘But, mothers aside, I’m glad we’re able to have this little chat, Dwayne. It’s always nice to renew old acquaintances, don’t you think?’
To judge from his scowl, Dwayne didn’t agree.
‘Okay. So let’s get down to cases, shall we?’ When you spoke to my colleagues, you didn’t seem too sure of your whereabouts on the Thursday evening of last week. Now you’ve had a chance to think about it, have you come up with any ideas?’
'Yeah. I was with a mate of mine. We were in the arcade in town till it shut at eleven.'
'And can anyone but your mate corroborate that? The arcade owner, say?'
'Yeah. He should do. Why don't you ask him?'
'Oh, I will, Dwayne. And what’s your mate's name?'
'Nick Bolsover.'
Rafferty managed a smile. 'What a coincidence. Mr Bolsover is also currently helping us with our inquiries.'
'He'll be nice and handy for you to ask then, won't he?'
Rafferty didn't bother to bandy any more words with Heller. Instead, he told the tape that the interview was suspended, and went and had Nick Bolsover brought to one of the other interview rooms.
Bolsover was a little older and a lot more streetwise than his friend. He even sang the same song. Either they'd concocted the arcade tale out of guilt, or they were telling the truth. Much to Rafferty's surprise, the latter turned out to be the case as the arcade owner confirmed.
No quick and simple solutions on this one, then, Rafferty told himself, not entirely displeased that this should be so. It would have been too easy if Sutherland's death had been caused by Heller, Bolsover or both. Apart from any other consideration, their involvement would have left the murder of Carol Mumford hanging strangely in the air with no logical connection to Sutherland's death. And Rafferty didn't for a moment believe there was no such connection.
***
HANKS’S TRAWL THROUGH Carol Mumford’s address book had produced a sister, a Mrs Linda Cartwright. She lived at Habberstone, four miles to the west of Elmhurst. It was a pleasant, twenty-minute drive, and at least they didn’t have the prospect of breaking the news of Ms Mumford’s death as Hanks had already done that.
Linda Cartwright’s home was a modern bungalow. Its front garden was filled with twee ornaments: a wooden windmill, a wishing well and several gnomes.
Mrs Cartwright herself turned out to be a grey-haired, Mumsie figure, in a lemon cardigan and grey pleated skirt. She looked a good few years older than Carol. She led them into the front room, which was furnished with lots of chintz and family photographs—they covered nearly every available wall surface.
Mrs Cartwright, once they were seated, immediately launched into an explanation for the age difference between herself and her late sister. ‘Carol was a late baby for my parents. I imagine my mother must have thought she was starting the change when she fell pregnant again. It must have been a shock to them both as my mother was in her late forties and my father in his early fifties. There’s fifteen years between Carol and me, so we were never close. I was almost grown up by then, of course, the usual stroppy teen with little interest in babies, particularly my parents’ child. I remember I found it hideously embarrassing that they should have another baby at their advanced age. How judgemental the young are. And now poor Carol’s gone. So tragic. And you say she was murdered? I can’t think who would want to murder Carol. She didn’t have any enemies as far as I know. Not that I would necessarily know, as I said, we weren’t close and didn’t see a lot of each other. I have my family, of course. They all live quite close and I see a lot of them.’ This last was stated with a complacent smile.
Rafferty got the impression that she had felt rather sorry for her little sister, the childless spinster who, in her opinion, had been a singular failure as a woman.
Rafferty wondered if she’d known about the regular liaisons with Keith Sutherland. He asked her and learned that she had.
‘He was only using her, as I told her. She should have had more pride than to be satisfied with the little he offered. I kept urging her to find a man of her own, but she never listened. She was a little headstrong and spoiled, of course, being so much younger than the rest of us. My two elder brothers doted on her and were forever bringing home presents for her. Of course they both live abroad now, Tony in Spain and Jim in France. They retired there. I suppose I’ll have to let them know what’s happened. Oh dear. What a dreadful thing. Will I...will I have to identify her?’
‘That would be helpful, Mrs Cartwright,’ Rafferty told her. ‘We’ll make sure there’s a car to bring you home.’ He could see the prospect wasn’t pleasing, but with the brothers living abroad there was no one else immediately available to do it.
It seemed she realised that she was inevitably the one who would have to undertake the task, for she rose, found her jacket and her handbag, and said she was read. ‘Or as ready as I’ll ever be.’ She pulled a face and her eyes became moist. ‘It’s funny, but you don’t expect to bury the baby of the family first.’ She looked at them, ‘Well, shall we get it over with?’
‘You wouldn’t like someone to come with you?’ Llewellyn asked. ‘A friend or neighbour? One of your children, perhaps?’
She shook her head. ‘My children are all at work. I wouldn’t like to drag them away for this particular duty.’ She led them out to the car and they were soon on their way. The return journey was even quicker. Once they had taken her to the mortuary and the body had been wheeled to the viewing room, Mrs Cartwright identified it with no evident doubt and stood for half a minute contemplating her dead sister with lowered head and sorrowful gaze. Then, with a sigh that said: Duty done, she turned away.
They drove her home, questioning her further during the journey. They had asked Mrs Cartwright if she had knowledge of anyone who nursed a grudge against her sister, but she had told then that, beyond her relationship with Keith Sutherland, she knew little of her sister’s life. She certainly didn’t know anyone who would wish to do her serious harm.
All in all, it had been an unproductive hour and a half. It left Rafferty feeling restless, with the urge to do something. But there was only the endless routine of the now double murder inquiry to soothe his restless spirit and that somehow didn’t satisfy.
Investigating those in Carol Mumford’s address book any more than doing the same with that of Keith Sutherland, wasn’t going to set the heart beating wildly. But such routines were an intrinsic part of any investigation. Though he couldn’t help feeling they were wasting their time. Someone who knew both Keith Sutherland and Carol Mumford was responsible for the two deaths and all the address book trawling in the world wouldn’t help them.
***
SAM DALLY WAS BEING his usual tardy self with the post mortem results on Carol Mumford. Not for nothing was he nicknamed Dilly Dally. When he got back from Linda Cartwright’s home, Rafferty rang and chased him up.
‘You’re not my only customer, you know, Rafferty,’ Sam told him testily when he was put through. ‘I’ve got corpses lined up left and right, all awaiting my attention.’
‘Yes, but they’re not all part of a double murder investigation.’
‘A suspected double murder investigation, surely? For all the evidence you’ve got the murders of Sutherland and Mumford are unconnected.’
‘I doubt that. I’ve a feeling in my water.’
‘Ever thought it might be a bladder infection?’
‘Funny man. You might scoff, Sam, but such feelings have proved to bring killers banged to rights before. I’ve no reason to doubt them this time, particularly as the two victims were close. Very close.’
‘Ever heard of coincidences?’
‘Never liked them. I don’t do coincidences. Anyway, enough of this banter, fun through it is. What can you tell me about Carol Mumford?’
‘I haven’t been able to narrow down the time of death at all. As to the weapon, I’d say it’s something rounded like a baseball bat. Right-handed assailant. There were at least half a dozen blows to the victim’s head. Determined to kill her, whoever it was.
‘Sounds like it. Strange that the two murders were so dissimilar.’
‘Another reason to think they’re not connected, I’d have thought.’
‘Not necessarily. I don’t believe we’re dealing with a serial killer here who goes in for the same MO every time. Maybe the different methods were adopted because one victim was drunk and the other sober. Keith Sutherland would have been an easy victim, half-cut and fumbling around in the gloom of the pub car park as he was. Perhaps the murderer didn’t feel as confident that a knife would be an effective weapon in the second murder. Anyway, that’s for me to worry about.’
‘That it is and pleased I am that that’s so. You’ll have my written report in due course—not that it’ll tell you any more than I just have.’
His spoken report hadn’t give him much either, Rafferty reflected as he thanked Sam and put the phone down.
He’d just have to solve the case the hard way.
***
IF DEREK FOWLER, KEITH Sutherland's business partner, had left his Cambridge hotel in order to commit murder, they had been able to find no evidence of it. Neither had they found anyone who was prepared, on being shown the long lens shot Rafferty had got Lance Edwards to obtain, to identify Fowler as an associate of the Perkins brothers.
So it looked, assuming Rafferty's suspicions were correct, that Sutherland had been investigating the possibility of organising a little insurance scam with the assistance of the Perkins frères, on his own.
Whether Sutherland had come to a sticky end because of some sort of thieves' falling out, was debatable. And probably unprovable seeing as the Perkins trio conveniently alibied one another.
But if they had killed Sutherland where did the murder of Carol Mumford fit in? For them to kill her also made no sense.
Unless he was barking up the wrong tree with her death, and it really had been what it, on the surface, seemed—an amateur burglary gone wrong. Rafferty shook his head. He still didn't buy that. Any more than he bought Keith Sutherland being attacked and knifed by a stranger whatever the crime figures might say about the prevalence of such crime in modern society.
He threw down his pen, leaned back and closed his eyes. He briefly nodded off and came to a few moments later to the dulcet tones of Superintendent Bradley saying: 'Well, if this is how you go about solving your murder cases, I'm not surprised the latest two are going nowhere.'
Rafferty jerked awake. He blinked owlishly. 'I was thinking, sir.'
'Thinking is it? I'd leave the thinking to them as are able for it. Like Llewellyn. You'd do better to get out there and question every suspect again. See if you can't rattle 'em by repetition. Trip them up by their own answers. That's the way, Rafferty. None of them have contradicted themselves yet, I take it?'
'No, sir.'
'They will. Stands to reason one of them must. Not going to make it happen by sitting on your arse in your office snoring. Think on, but.'
With that last piece of gratuitous advice, Bradley banged out of the office.
Rafferty sighed. If only everything in life were as black and white as Bradley saw it, rather than numerous shades of grey.
But there was no getting away from the fact that the investigation into Sutherland’s death wasn’t going well. In spite of repeated appeals for him to come forward, the man who had been in the snug of The Railway Arms with Sutherland had still not made himself known. Why not? Who was he and what did he have to hide? And what was his connection to Keith Sutherland?
Rafferty had got Andy Strong, the landlord, to work with the police artist on a mug shot of the mystery man, which he'd shown to Keith Sutherland's family and acquaintances, but no one had recognised him. Unless he came forward voluntarily he would remain a mystery. And he didn't like mysteries. Not when they had to do with murder.
What to do next? He glanced at his watch. It was coming up to twelve. Maybe he and Llewellyn should drive back to the Sutherlands' and catch Susie between business engagements? As nothing else suggested itself, he decided to follow his own inclination.
The weather was a lot cheerier than he was. Bradley's shot about falling asleep on the job had rankled. It was unfair. But that was Bradley all over. Brickbats were one of his specialities. If he ever handed out bouquets the flowers were sure to have greenfly.
He went in search of Llewellyn and they drove through sunlit streets that made everything look shiny and new. Windows sparkled, trees greenly glistened in their new summer clothing. In fact, everything but him seemed to have put its best foot and face forward to greet the sun. The thought made him grimace.
When they reached the Sutherlands' home, Susie was sharply business-like to match her dark grey suit.
She was in the kitchen with her mother, just finishing what looked like a salad lunch when they arrived. And after Rafferty had explained the reason for their visit, she asked cuttingly, 'Why would I want to murder a woman I didn't know? Never mind creep out of the house in the dead of night to do it? The idea's mad.' And so are you, her expression implied.
'What time did you and your mother go to bed?' Rafferty asked.
Susie gave a theatrical sigh. 'Mum went up about half nine. Isn’t that right, Mum?’ She turned to her mother, and Mary Sutherland nodded. ‘And I went about an hour later. Neither of us sneaked out of the house to murder a woman we'd never heard of. Why would we?'
Rafferty didn't answer her question. Instead, he posed one of his own. 'Are you sure you or your mother didn't know her?’ He glanced over at Mrs Sutherland, who shook her head.'
‘No, of course I didn’t know her,’ Susie replied. She frowned. ‘And this woman was supposed to be my father’s mistress, right?’
'Long term mistress, yes.'
'Dad was no spring chicken. I would have thought any tendency to being a Lothario was long since over.'
'Perhaps it was. Maybe they were more into companionship. But there's no doubt they were close friends of long standing.'
'Well, I didn't know about it. As I told you. Mum didn’t either. As she’s also told you.'
Rafferty nodded. 'Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Sutherland, Ms Sutherland.' He made to go, then turned back. 'I hear congratulations are in order.'
Susie’s eyes narrowed. 'Congratulations? What do you mean?'
'Your mother told us you're starting your own business. A brave move in the current financial climate.'
'That's just the way things have panned out. I'd rather not have tried to get a business of the ground either in the current climate, or in the midst of a murder investigation into my father's death. But sometimes the timing of events is out of kilter. It was the right time for me, which is the most important thing.'
'I'm sure you're right.' He gestured to Llewellyn. They made their goodbyes and left the house.
'Mary Sutherland was quiet while we interviewed her daughter,' Rafferty commented as they made for the car. In truth, the older woman hadn't spoken one word during their visit. He wondered if she was scared she’d let some scrawny feline out of the bag.
'She seemed distracted,' said Llewellyn. 'As if she was hardly in the same room. Of course, she has just lost her husband, and perhaps learned for the first time about his long-term mistress.'
'I don't buy that,' Rafferty scoffed. 'All those years and we're meant to believe she had no inkling? How likely is that? Someone would have seen Sutherland and his floozy together and tipped her the wink. If the affair had only been on the go for fifteen weeks, then maybe I could believe she didn't know about it. But not for fifteen years. Some helpful soul would have thought it their duty to break the happy news. Besides, I was watching her when I mentioned Carol Mumford's name. She knew her all right. I'd stake my pension on it.'
Llewellyn zapped the car to unlock the doors, and they got in. 'What now?' he enquired. 'Do you want to speak to Ian Sutherland again? Find out if he's got an alibi for last night?'
'Sounds good to me. He'll be at work. It might rattle him if we beard him at his place of employment.'
This wasn't something that Rafferty liked to do, but this case was getting to him: maybe he'd achieve better results if, like Superintendent Bradley, he played the heavy-footed plod.
Ian Sutherland's place of work was a town centre estate agency. It was an independent rather than part of a chain. Sutherland was the sole proprietor. Rafferty wondered if Ian knew his cousin, Nigel Blythe, as they were both in the same line. Maybe he should ask Nigel what he knew of Sutherland.
There again, would it be fair to put the suggestion that Sutherland was a murder suspect into the mind of Nigel, his presumed business rival? On the other hand, all was fair in love and murder as he was sure Nigel would put it.
Ian Sutherland wasn't very welcoming when they were shown into his office.
'You again,' he said with a scowl. 'What do you want now? I'm just on my way out to meet a client. And I don't appreciate your coming to my place of business.’
'And there was me thinking you'd be glad to help find your father's murderer,' said Rafferty. This earned him another scowl.
'Well, you're not going to find him here.' Sutherland glanced at his watch—a showy timepiece that seemed to have more dials than Concorde. 'I can give you five minutes.'
Rafferty smiled. 'Good of you. I doubt it will take that long. All we need to know is where you were last night between the hours of eleven pm and two a. m.'
Sutherland's gaze swivelled between the two policemen. He looked rattled—like a man with no alibi would look rattled. 'Last night? Why? What happened last night?'
'If you've got an alibi you don't need to be concerned, do you, sir?' Rafferty quietly remarked. 'So where were you? At home? Out with your fiancée?'
Sutherland seized on the last suggestion like a man going down in the sea for the third time. 'Yes. That's right. I was with Georgie, my fiancée. Georgie Green. We were at my flat. I cooked dinner. I drove her home around midnight.'
Curious how Sutherland had covered the most important hour of those that he had mentioned. In spite of Sam Dally's implacable refusal to shorten the presumed time of death from the three hours between eleven and two, Rafferty, from the evidence of the still made-up bed at Carol Mumford's home, had shortened the most likely time lines for himself. He had glanced in Sutherland's kitchen when they had visited him on the morning after his father had died. It had looked decidedly under-used—no grease staining the cooker and no dirty utensils littering the worktops. In fact, the only evidence of the culinary arts that the kitchen had evidenced had been the pile of takeaway fast food containers escaping from the swing bin. The idea of Sutherland actually cooking a meal for his fiancée struck Rafferty about as unlikely as himself cooking the entire Rafferty clan Christmas dinner. He doubted this particular young man could cook more than a boiled egg.
But, unless Sutherland’s fiancée insisted on telling the truth, it seemed to Rafferty that he had been the agent of his own misfortune. Me and my big mouth. Why did I put the idea of the alibied night spent with his future wife into Sutherland's brain? It had been stupid, and his own stupidity annoyed him mightily. But there was nothing to be done about it now, not unless Sutherland's fiancée turned out to be a young lady with a mind of her own. And Ian Sutherland didn't strike him as the sort of man who would appreciate a woman with a brain and the willingness to use it.
Rafferty, still annoyed with himself, just asked for the fiancée's address and phone number, and left an Ian Sutherland who was clearly itching to reach for his mobile and get alibi back-up.
***
'I MADE A MESS OF THAT, didn't I?' he said ruefully to Llewellyn once they were back in the car.
'You did, rather,' Llewellyn agreed.
'Don't hold back,' Rafferty snapped. 'Just tell it like it is, why don't you?'
'I thought I just did,' Llewellyn replied mildly. 'I suppose it depends on whether he's telling the truth. Or whether his fiancée is a good liar. Either way, unless he was seen on the street and we find out, we've hamstruck ourselves.’
'I've hamstruck us, you mean. Stupid of me. I don't know why I put an alibi in his mouth. It's not like me.'
'But you're not like you at the moment, are you? Not with this business with Abra still hanging over you. Let me see if I can get hold of her this evening. Then you might not suggest alibis to suspects.'
Rafferty nodded sombrely. 'You're right. I'm out of sorts, so Sutherland got an Abra-alibi. Stupid of me,' he said again.
'Well, it's done now. The only thing is to speak to this Georgie Green. See what she says. She may not back him up if he's lying.'
'She's going to marry him, isn't she? She's bound to stick up for him. Why wouldn't she? She won't want the suspicion of murder hanging over her would-be husband's head—not with the wedding only a few weeks away.'
'Let's wait and see. You want to visit her at home this evening?'
Rafferty nodded. He'd forgotten to get the young woman's work address. 'Yes. It'll give her a few hours to get rattled if she's contemplating lying to us. We’ll go and see my cousin, Nigel Blythe, see what he can tell us about Ian Sutherland and then get back to base. See if anything new has come in.' He wasn't hopeful.
***
RAFFERTY WAS LUCKY, and he and Llewellyn caught Nigel in his office.
The estate agency was quiet, with few customers in the outer office. Of course the economy was still far from booming after the latest downturn, and estate agents like Nigel were suffering accordingly. Banks and building societies often demanded a hefty deposit, and for many, the chances of getting a mortgage were slim.
Whether Nigel was suffering financially, he looked as glossy as ever today in a lightweight mauve suit with a lemon shirt and tie. But then Nigel, like Llewellyn, always looked debonair as if he had his, own personal valet on tap. It was one of the more irritating things about him.
‘Well, if it isn’t my copper cousin and his oppo,’ he greeted them as they stood in the doorway. ‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘We’re looking to pick your brain, Nigel,’ Rafferty told him. ‘About Ian Sutherland, one of your business rivals.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘Nothing that we can prove. It was his father that was murdered in The Railway Arms. You might have read about it.’
‘It was that Sutherland, was it?’
‘I’d have thought you knew all about it, you being in the same line as his son.’
Nigel shrugged. ‘I don’t keep tabs on all the opposition. Not interested unless they try to do the dirty on me over a sale.’
‘Did you know the victim?’
‘I’ve met him once or twice in one of the local pubs and passed the time of day. Can’t say I took to him.’
‘What about the son, Ian? What can you tell us about him?’
‘Not a lot.’ Nigel leant back in his swanky leather executive chair and propped his highly-polished Italian leather loafers on the desk. ‘But I did hear that his business is having a worse time of it in the current climate than most.’
‘Any tendency to violence?
‘Not to my knowledge. Can’t hold his drink though—I’ve socialised with him at several estate agents’ conventions and he gets belligerent with booze. Why? Are you thinking of removing him from circulation? Think he did for his old man?’ Nigel grinned. ‘Would up my profits if another competitor bit the dust.’
Trust Nigel to think of number one.
‘So—are you thinking Ian did for his old man?’
‘He’s one of a number of suspects, that’s all. We’ve nothing else against him. You said his business wasn’t doing well. Think he’s on the brink of going under?’ It would mean Sutherland was under even more financial pressure, which would be an added reason for him to kill the father he didn’t seem to much like, in order to get his hands on his supposed inheritance.
‘Could be. I make a regular study of the competition and have a few willing spies in place—you’re not the only one with informants, coz, but most of mine only require payment in kindness, if you get my drift.’ Another grin. ‘His business has been going downhill rapidly. The properties he’s got on his books haven’t been moving. Most have remained unsold for months. He must be getting desperate.’
Desperate enough to kill his father? Rafferty thanked Nigel for the information and left the agency. Ian Sutherland had been on the spot at the time of his father’s murder and given the financial difficulties Nigel had told them he was under, Ian certainly had one hell of a motive. A motive exacerbated, again according to Nigel, by his business being on the brink of disaster. Ian Sutherland must have been getting increasingly desperate as the weeks to his wedding went by with no lucrative sales. People had killed with much less reason.
***
MUCH TO RAFFERTY’S surprise, something new, something helpful, had come in during his and Llewellyn’s absence. He could only conclude the unkind fates were sunning themselves on some Californian beach instead of concentrating their malevolency on him as seemed usually to be the case.
A young woman stood up when they entered reception and moved towards him as Bill Beard said, ‘Miss’ and pointed to Rafferty.
'You are Inspector Rafferty?' she asked.
Rafferty nodded, and she introduced herself. 'My name's Georgie Green.'
Rafferty felt wrong-footed. What was Ian Sutherland’s fiancée doing here? In his mind, he'd relegated the interview with her to this evening. 'What can I do for you, Ms Green?' he asked, stalling for thinking time.
She gave a faint smile. It softened her somewhat hard features. 'I think it's more a case of what I can do for you, actually. You know I'm Ian Sutherland's fiancée?'
Rafferty nodded.
'Ian rang me a short while ago. Wanted me to lie for him. I wouldn't do it. I couldn't do it. I was with a gaggle of girlfriends last night, at least two of whom have very loose tongues and one of whom is going out with a policeman. They'd break his alibi in a moment if they were questioned. What's the point? As I explained to Ian.' Her lips turned down. 'He didn't take it very well.'
'I appreciate your honesty, Ms Green,' Rafferty told her. 'Not everyone would be so frank in the circumstances.'
'It would have been stupid to agree to Ian's demands, particularly when a few questions would have disclosed the lie. And so I told him. He wasn't very pleased.' Her face puckered for a moment and Rafferty thought she was going to cry. But she was obviously made of stern stuff and managed to hold the tears at bay.
Rafferty was surprised that Ian Sutherland had chosen to marry such a strong-minded young woman. Perhaps there was more to Sutherland that he had suspected. 'Come up to my office,' he invited. 'And we can talk. Does Mr Sutherland know you're here?'
She shrugged as he pressed the door code and ushered her through and up the stairs. 'I imagine he can guess. He might have been stupid to try such a lie, especially with me. And you,' she added generously with a little sideways smile. ‘But he’s not generally lacking in perception.’
Once seated in Rafferty's office, he asked her if she knew where her fiancé had been the previous night.
'He told me he'd been at home all evening. He said he had an early viewing this morning so wanted a quiet night.'
'And did you believe him?'
'Yes.' She met his gaze squarely. 'Yes, I did. Ian's not normally a liar, I wouldn't be marrying him if he was. I'm not a complete fool. But this business with his father's murder has seriously rattled him. He's all at sixes and sevens, particularly as his alibi for it rests on a few drunken friends.'
'Do you think he had anything to do with his father's death?'
She shook her head vehemently. 'Ian hasn't got it in him to kill anybody, least of all his father. Ian and he might not have got on as well as they might have, but he was in awe of his father and his business ability. You know he started the business before SuperElect from scratch?'
Rafferty shook his head. 'Ian didn't resent his father? Resent what he'd achieved? The fact that he hadn't left his share of the business to Ian and his sister?'
'No. Not at all. You're on the wrong track, Inspector, if you think he had anything to do with his father's death. Nothing could be further from the truth, believe me.'
Rafferty would like to. Even if only to remove one suspect from the list. But whatever Georgie Green said, it was still early days yet and he wasn't willing to cross anyone's name off the list.
