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‘YOU SEEM PRETTY SURE that the pub landlord, Andy Strong, didn’t kill Sutherland. So what about Sutherland’s son?’ Superintendent Bradley demanded during the next morning’s inquest into what Rafferty was or wasn’t doing in the Sutherland murders investigation. ‘The MOMs seem to be stacked again him.’
‘Motive and opportunity, anyway,’ Rafferty corrected. His lips twitched at Bradley’s frown. The Super didn’t like anyone to correct him, especially not him. Good reason for doing it, of course. He twisted the non-existent knife. ‘As to the means, we have no proof that Ian Sutherland was carrying a blade. And we have failed to find one on his route from the pub to the night-club.’
‘He had motive and opportunity, that’s enough for me. Makes me wonder why you’ve failed to arrest him.’
Rafferty’s gaze narrowed, suspecting the Super of implying he was on the take. But as he studied his boss closely, it struck him that Bradley always tried to imply he had more knowledge than he actually possessed in the hope that the object of his attack would self-incriminate. He decided to ignore the barb on the principle of not providing ammunition.
‘He’ll have given the knife to one of his pals to dispose of. Didn’t you say two of his friends work in London?’
Rafferty nodded.
‘That’s where it’ll be then. Ian Sutherland’s favourite for me,’ Bradley insisted again. ‘He should be favourite for you, too.’
Rafferty’s jaw clenched at Bradley’s second dart. But he wouldn’t give the old bastard an excuse to issue a reprimand. And as for Sutherland being favourite: he was, and he wasn’t. Yes, Bradley was right—the MOMs were stacked against Ian Sutherland. But that didn’t mean he’d killed his father. But if he hadn’t—who had? Round and round went Rafferty’s thoughts, chasing each other uselessly, while Bradley continued his diatribe.
He tuned back into the monologue when Bradley banged on the table and shouted, ‘I want some results on these murders, Rafferty, and I want them soon. Region’s chasing. Media coverage hasn’t exactly showered this investigation with praise. And that means they’re not showering me with praise either. So, results, Rafferty. See to it.’
Rafferty nodded again. It wasn’t an acquiescent nod, more of an expedient one, and an acknowledgement of Bradley’s demand. But he knew he was under the cosh. He hurried from Bradley’s office before the Super could start in on some other fault-finding.
Ho hum. What to do? Ian Sutherland was in the frame, there was no doubt about that. He might not have all three of the MOMs, but two out of three was pretty damning.
Where was the knife, that was the question? Was Bradley right? Had Sutherland relied on one of his friends to dispose of it in London? They certainly hadn’t found it around the immediate vicinities of the pub or the night-club, in spite of thorough searches at both locations. Part of him acknowledged that Bradley’s demand that he arrest Ian Sutherland had pushed him into a corner, even though he wasn’t sure of his guilt. But he had no choice. It wasn’t as if there was an immediately alternative suspect. As Bradley had said—Ian Sutherland had the motive and the opportunity. Had he carried the means also? If he had and had passed the knife to one of his obliging friends to dispose of in London, they’d never find it.
He knew he had to do something as the investigation had stalled. Every avenue they had investigated had come to nothing, even the one provided by Mrs Adams whom they had hosted over the bone china. He was tired of Bradley always on his tail. Perhaps he should do what the bastard said he wanted and arrest Ian Sutherland. He could always lodge an official protest at the same time, and then watch Bradley squirm when his alternative investigation exonerated him. Since he wasn’t flavour of any month in the Super’s eyes, he might as well get some satisfaction out of the situation if and when Bradley had pushed him sufficiently into the corner to do what he said.
***
THE PROGRESS IN THE Carol Mumford murder case was proving about as satisfactory as the one into Keith Sutherland’s. Apart from whoever had killed her, she appeared to have no known enemies. And given the fact and method of her murder, it seemed that even Carol Mumford herself hadn’t realised her killer was an enemy.
Rafferty had divided the investigation team in two. He had learned as much about the two victims as was likely to be useful, but this knowledge seemed to have gained him little insight. He was no nearer to solving either crime now than he had been at the beginning.
Llewellyn was as stumped as he was, which was unusual. The Welshman usually managed a few kernels of insight during investigations, even if they stemmed from Ancient Latin or Greek wiseacres like his seeming favourite, Sallust. The fact that he had mentioned few since the beginning of the investigation made Rafferty feel less lacking in investigatory skills than he otherwise might have.
They’d checked with Carol Mumford’s work colleagues, friends and family, as carefully as they’d checked those of Keith Sutherland, but had received little useful feedback. Both cases seemed to have shunted themselves into sidings, and it was his job to bring them back on to the main drag. As Bradley hadn’t been slow to tell him. Bradley had had no hesitation in letting him know he thought he’d fallen asleep on the job and needed regular prodding if he was to get anywhere. So, suitably prodded, he had to do something.
But he still intended, in spite of Bradley, to continue other aspects of the investigation. He knew who stood to gain from Keith Sutherland’s murder—his family and Derek Fowler. And although none of the dead man’s family had been able to supply alibis that stood up to investigation, Fowler had. He’d been in Cambridge, and no amount of questioning, of Fowler or anyone else, had been able to place him in Elmhurst on the night of Sutherland’s murder. And for all she’d been on the spot and stood to gain as much as her husband, try as he might, Rafferty couldn’t see the twittering Mrs Fowler sticking a knife between anyone’s shoulder blades.
So that left the family...Mary Sutherland, Susie and Ian. The picture was narrowing, and it now seemed that one of the three was guilty. Of the three, granted, Ian seemed the more likely. Knifing was generally a male murder method. The sheer physicality of it met some need in the male population that didn’t exist in that of the female, or not nearly so often.
But although they could find no evidence that Derek Fowler had been in Elmhurst on the night of the first murder, it would be unwise to follow Bradley’s diktat and strike his name from the list of suspects along with the two female Sutherlands. They’d circulated the local train and coach stations and taxi firms with his description in case he’d left his easily identifiable car in Cambridge and used other means of transport. But it wasn’t as if he had any physical peculiarity to mark him out from the hordes of other middle-aged, paunchy, white males travelling on that day. Certainly, no one had claimed to have seen him. Of course, if he’d been intent on murder, Fowler might have disguised himself in some way.
It was such subtle possibilities that Bradley invariably ignored in his concentration on getting results—even if they were the wrong ones. Trouble was, the super was more interested in pleasing his superiors and getting a pat on the head than he was in arresting the right suspect. It was all about the crime figures with him. Conviction by statistics.
***
TOM KENDALL POPPED his head round Rafferty’s office door. ‘Thought you’d like to know,’ he said, ‘that Paul Perkins is singing louder than Pavarotti. And although he’s so far failed to implicate his two brothers, he’s stitched up the two lads who were employees at the last two warehouse jobs. As a bonus, he’s also begun sharing the names of the customers who regularly brought the hookey gear.’
Dismayed, Rafferty could think of nothing to say beyond, ‘Come up with many names, has he?’
‘Ten so far. And counting.’
Rafferty forced a lightness into his voice that he was far from feeling. ‘Anyone we know?’
‘No one I know. Maybe you’ll be familiar with one or two of them.’
Was that a subtle dig? A little taunt that the Rafferty name had been mentioned during the latest interview with Paul Perkins? But, when Tom pulled a sheet of paper from pocket and began to rattle the names off, he realised he’d been paranoid. The Rafferty name wasn’t amongst them. Yet. But Tom had said that Paul Perkins was still spilling beans like a careless greengrocer. It was possible Ma’s name would be mentioned before the day was out.
Rafferty was only thankful that he’d managed to persuade her it would be a good idea to move the hookey television. But he still felt sick to his stomach and it was as much as he could manage to congratulate Kendall on his success. He just wasn’t sure he’d made a convincing job of it. Especially as, before he’d exited Rafferty’s office, Kendall’s gaze had narrowed speculatively, and he’d gone away with way too thoughtful an expression creasing his brow.
***
BEFORE HE TOOK THE heavy step of arresting Sutherland, Rafferty decided there were a few matters on which he wanted answers. Such as why Sutherland had denied being in the gents’ toilet at The Railway Arms around eleven on the night of his father’s murder. It totally contradicted the evidence of a witness who knew Sutherland, and who had also told them that Sutherland hadn’t been making use of the facilities. So what the hell had he been doing?
And as for the other members of the Sutherland family, he had yet to question Mary Sutherland about her previous close relationship with Derek Fowler.
Both these points needed to be cleared up; either might enable them to make significant moves forward. But after his latest ego-bruising encounter with Bradley, Rafferty felt in need of a restorative before he launched into further moves likely to raise the Super’s hackles. So he fished a couple of pound coins out of his pocket and asked Llewellyn, who was heading out the door, to take a detour via the canteen and bring back some liquid sustenance.
Feeling almost restored to his normal equilibrium after he’d consumed a pint of hot, sweet tea, twenty minutes later, Rafferty and Llewellyn set off. Ian Sutherland was first on their agenda. He’d be at work now, so they headed to the estate agency. Rafferty, wanting to catch Sutherland off-guard so hadn’t instructed Llewellyn to ring first and give him advance warning. But he had it all the same as Sutherland was in his inner office with clients when they arrived, and they were forced to cool their heels in the reception area until he was free.
Rafferty took the opportunity to study the agency while he waited. It wasn’t nearly as swish-looking as his cousin Nigel’s place, which was all gleaming chrome and genuine leather hides. Here, the decoration and furniture looked a little tired, much like Sutherland himself, whom they could see eyeing them through the glass of his office. Stymied of the element of surprise, Rafferty was nevertheless encouraged by the expression of desperation Sutherland wore, though whether this was because of their visit or because his attempts to sweet-talk the couple with him wasn’t going well, was debatable.
There were six desks in the outer office, but only two of them were occupied. The rest were clear of the usual litter, and indicated they were unused, their occupants let go. Even the property details displayed in the windows and on the internal walls were looked a little dog-eared as if they been up for some time and no one retained the will or initiative to replace them with freshly-printed copies. It seemed that Nigel was correct in his claim that Sutherland’s business wasn’t going well.
The two members of staff on duty didn’t seem to have much in the way of work to occupy them; one seemed to be covertly perusing the situations vacant columns of the local paper and the other was staring out the window watching the rain obliterate the view of the few property details displayed in the windows.
The couple in with Sutherland left a handful of minutes later, both were vehemently shaking their heads in mutual negativity and hurrying for the entrance as if they’d endured sufficient of Sutherland’s sales talk. Rafferty heard them muttering about shifting the sale of their home to another agency as they sped past. He walked across to the open office door and knocked on the glass. He didn’t wait for an invitation to enter.
‘Mr Sutherland.’ The inner office looked to be in slightly better decorative fettle than the outer one, but it still presented a less than pristine and successful appearance. Rafferty wondered how much longer the business would keep going.
Sutherland didn’t trouble to greet them. He looked harassed and haggard, worse than when he’d been nursing a hangover on the morning after his stag night. All he said was, ‘So how much longer is this going to go on?’
‘Until we find your father’s murderer, sir,’ Rafferty told him. ‘Tell me something, sir. About the night of your father’s death.’
‘Tell you what? I’ve told you all I can. Several times.’
‘But that’s not true, is it, sir? Not entirely. For instance, you told me you didn’t visit the gents’ in the pub just before you left for the night-club, yet I have a witness – someone who knows you well by sight – who places you there just before eleven that night. So why did you lie to me?’
Sutherland looked shaken. ‘I...I must have forgotten, that’s all. It was a heavy night. I told you that.’
‘Yes, but it’s strange that none of your friends recalled it either. They all at first claimed you were together for an entire quarter of an hour before your departure from the pub. Now they’re claiming alcoholic amnesia and an inability to remember much at all about the night. Quite an about-face, wouldn’t you say?’
Sutherland attempted a shrug. But it didn’t quite convey the insouciant carelessness that he had perhaps intended. ‘I can’t be held responsible for their memories or lack thereof. Even you, Inspector, must admit that I can only be held responsible for my own. And as I told you, I simply forgot. Does it really matter?’
‘I’d say so, sir. Considering it happened during the crucial few minutes when your father’s murder is most likely to have occurred.’
Sutherland tried outrage. It didn’t come off any better than his previous insouciance. ‘You can’t seriously think I killed the old man? Sure,’ he admitted, ‘we had our differences, but it’s not as if we saw that much of each other that we couldn’t live with them.’
Rafferty decided to try another tack. ‘Business seems quiet today. And I’d guess you’ve let some of your staff go. Things not doing too well?’
‘Things are doing just fine. This is just a temporary blip. I’ll take on some more people once business picks up. Doubt it’ll be long.’
‘So, it’s been this slack for what? One month? Two? Six?’
‘Two, three months at the most. That’s all. Every agency in the property field has downturns. So much of it’s seasonal. We’re not the only agency experiencing quiet times.’
No, but it provided further confirmation of Nigel’s claim that Sutherland had an urgent need for money. Rafferty decided to delay Bradley’s almost-order to arrest Sutherland. It was clear the man had been rattled by their latest visit—who knew what unwise action this might persuade him into? It was worth delaying carrying out Bradley’s demands just to give Sutherland the space for some incriminating action.
From Sutherland’s estate agency, they drove to the family home. Mary Sutherland was again alone; perhaps Susie had gone in pursuit of another bank loan for her business on the supposition that some had more flexible lending rules than others. There was no Family Liaison Officer with her. Mrs Sutherland had insisted that a permanent police presence wasn’t necessary and that she preferred to receive comfort from a loving daughter rather than a stranger, however kind.
Rafferty would have preferred for the continued presence of a Family Liaison Officer in the house, it being possible that, if either woman had anything to conceal, they might let something slip. But he’d been forced to concede that their presence was entirely at the householder’s discretion, so the FLO presence was withdrawn.
Tea was offered and accepted. Rafferty used the intervening minutes to get his thoughts in order and decide how best to introduce the subject of Derek Fowler. But however he brought it up, it was likely to require a delicate touch.
The tea-making was soon accomplished, and Mary Sutherland returned, bearing a tray, which the ever-gentlemanly Llewellyn took from her and placed on the coffee table.
‘What did you want to speak to me about, Inspector?’ Mrs Sutherland asked as she poured the tea. ‘I can only hope it’s to tell me you’re getting closer to making an arrest.’
‘We’re making progress,’ Rafferty told her cautiously. ‘Eliminating certain possibilities. We’re hopeful that the eliminations will lead us to your husband’s murderer. But it was another matter on which I wanted to speak to you today.’ He paused and then decided just to plunge in and get it over with. ‘Tell me. Is it true that you and Derek Fowler had a close relationship?’
‘Close relationship with Derek Fowler? No. There is no relationship. My husband and I rarely socialised with him and his wife.’
‘I’m sorry. I see I haven’t made my meaning clear. I don’t mean now. But it’s my understanding that at one time, before either of you married, you and Derek Fowler were close. I heard you were practically engaged.’
Mary Sutherland laughed. It was the first time he’d heard any expression of amusement from her. But then, he supposed, just lately she’d had little enough to laugh at.
‘My God,’ she said, that’s ancient history. And to set the record straight, we were never ‘practically engaged’. We never even came close to that. It was just the usual boy and girl romance that petered out as these things do.’
‘I see. You didn’t find it difficult that he went on to go into partnership with your husband?’
‘No. Not at all. I told you, I rarely saw him. Our relationship as you call it was in the past. A very long time in the past.’ She picked up her cup of tea and took dainty sip.
Rafferty, who didn’t do dainty, went to reach for own tea only to discover it was already half gone. Mary Sutherland favoured delicate china cups that, in comparison with Rafferty’s favourite pint mug, was gone in two gulps. Anxious to conceal his rude appetites in the face of her loss, Rafferty replaced his cup in its saucer, so as to prolong the time the tea lasted. He glanced at Llewellyn, only to observe that his sergeant was a pretty dainty sipper himself.
Although, between the pair of them, he was beginning to feel like some village clodhopper accidently invited to the vicar’s tea party, Rafferty observed that Mrs Sutherland’s hand was shaking slightly and that her clasp of the cup was tight enough to crack the delicate porcelain.
‘Is that all you wished to see me about?’ she asked now as she firmly replaced her cup in its saucer.
‘Yes. That’s all.’ Ignoring any social sensibilities, he swilled the remaining tea down his throat and stood up. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’
‘No bother, Inspector. You must ‘bother’ me as often as you like until you find my husband’s killer.’
She showed them out, closing the door gently behind them.
Rafferty’s face fell into disconsolate folds. ‘We don’t seem to be making much progress, do we?’ he asked Llewellyn. ‘Mary Sutherland didn’t seem too discombobulated that we’d discovered her previous relationship with Fowler.’ Then he recalled the slight tremor of her hand. He clutched at it. It could be significant. There again, he could just be in heavy waters with no life-belt in sight. His own desperation depressed him. Llewellyn, of course, could always be relied to make a tiny case of the blues seem like the blackest of witching hours.
‘I believed her. Maybe we ought to forget any possibility of collusion between the two. I don’t feel it an investigatory strand that holds up to examination.’
Rafferty rallied, the contrary in him coming to the fore. ‘As you say, no collusion between those two. It doesn’t mean there couldn’t have been collusion between Mary Sutherland and her son and daughter. Both were in the vicinity of the pub at the right time. All have reasons to want him dead. And all three lack alibis of substance.’ And all we have to do is prove it. The thought depressed Rafferty again after his brief rally. ‘Come on, let’s get back.’ He was keen to return to the station and discover if Paul Perkins had blabbed any more of his customers; names.
At least it had stopped raining. But they had to walk a meandering path to avoid the large puddles.
Rafferty’s anxiety increased the closer they got to the station. It had his throat in a strangler’s grip by the time they had parked up and punched in the key-code to the back entrance and walked through to reception. His every nerve was sensitively attuned to suss out the atmosphere as he forced himself into a bold tread.
But all seemed quiet. Bill Beard, usually the first to hear any gossip, greeted him normally, with no hint of secrets learned. But the waiting was getting to him. Part of him was beginning to wish Ma would be found out; at least then, with it out in the open, he wouldn’t feel the need to creep around like a criminal. But he couldn’t deny that the reality of discovery would be infinitely worse than the anticipation of it—Superintendent Bradley would make sure of that.
Rafferty climbed the stairs to his second-floor office trailed by Llewellyn. He checked his in-tray, but nothing new had come in. He felt at a loss as to what path to pursue. Unless he was to follow Bradley’s diktat and arrest Ian Sutherland, he desperately needed something to break.
