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THE PRESS CONFERENCE came to an end over an hour later. Rafferty made his way back to his office, where Llewellyn was still beavering away.
‘Anything new come in?’ Rafferty asked as he sat down at his desk.
‘Nothing much. Though a couple of the burglary suspects were unable to give alibis as to where they were on the nights the burglaries took place.’
‘Might get a speedy result, then. Two results if it gets Bradley off my back.’
‘Lizzie Green and Tim Smales are bringing the suspects in for questioning.’ Llewellyn glanced at the clock. ‘They should be here soon. Lizzie rang in ten minutes ago.’
Lizzie rang up from the custody suite a couple of minutes later, and Rafferty and Llewellyn went down to question the two burglary suspects. Both were well-known to them, being habitual offenders.
The first, Harry Crew, was brought into the interview room. As expected, he denied any involvement in the burglaries.
‘Trying to stitch me up again, Mr Rafferty?’ he asked. ‘I was home with my old lady on the nights you mentioned. I’ve just remembered.’
‘What a memory you must have. Now me, I can’t remember what I’ve done from one day to the next. Getting quite the homebody, then, aren’t you? That’s not like you, Harry.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not as young as I was. Besides, I’m pretty well retired now, you know. There’s too many places with the good stuff with security these days. When I was working, I liked a simple in and out, as you know, Mr Rafferty. It’s all getting too complicated now.’
Harry Crew wasn’t noted for his proficiency in disabling security systems, so, against his better judgement, Rafferty was inclined to believe him. He let Crew go: he could always have him picked up again if necessary.
The other suspect was a different case. Jimmy ‘the Crack’ Jameson was a noted safe man, and several of the properties that had been burgled had had their safes cleaned out. Jimmy didn’t have a wife and was a loner, so had been able to supply no ready alibi. Within half an hour, Rafferty had charged and bailed him.
‘Right,’ he said, as he and Llewellyn left the custody suite. ‘That’s that sorted. I’m off out again.’
‘And what am I supposed to tell Superintendent Bradley this time if he comes looking for you? Not another meeting with a snout?’
‘No, I think not. Even Bradley wouldn’t fall for the same excuse twice. Tell him I’ve gone to lunch. Even I’m entitled to a lunch break, especially so, given the long days we’ve been doing lately.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Not to lunch, anyway. Though I can bring you a sandwich back if you like.’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ll get something from the canteen.’
‘Suit yourself. I don’t suppose I’ll be much more than an hour. Hold the fort. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.’
‘And will you tell Superintendent Bradley all about it, too?’
‘Not a chance. Not yet, anyway.’ Rafferty went out and drove to the Sutherlands’ home.
‘You again, Inspector,’ said Susie, who answered the door. ‘My mother told me you were here earlier.’
‘Just call me a bad penny,’ Rafferty said. ‘I’ll keep turning up until I’m satisfied I’ve got the truth.’
‘The truth? Are you sure you’d recognise it? After all, you arrested my poor, foolish brother. He’s the last person to kill anyone, least of all my father. He was scared of him.’
‘Perhaps that’s a reason for killing him?’
‘Never. You don’t know Ian, or you wouldn’t say that.’
‘Anyway, can I come in? I’ve got something I want to say to you both.’
‘I thought you’d already said it all.’ Susie’s lip curled, but she stood back and let him in.
Once again seated in the living room, Rafferty got straight to the point. ‘I’ve begun having doubts about Ian’s guilt,’ he told them.
Mary Sutherland gasped, then said in a breathless voice, ‘Thank God. I thought—’
‘I told you he didn’t do it,’ was Susie’s blunt response.
‘Yes, you did, didn’t you? The thing is, I won’t be able to release Ian until I find the real killer, because my superintendent believes he’s guilty. Can either of you help me do that?’
They looked at one another, with matching upset expressions, then Susie said, with a hint of scorn in her voice, ‘And how are we supposed to do that? All we know is that he didn’t do it. We have no idea who did.’
‘Are you sure? You both knew Keith better than anyone. Could probably make a well-judged guess as to who in his circle hated him enough to kill him. What about you, Mrs Sutherland? Have you any idea who killed your husband?’
‘No...I...that is...No, no, I haven’t.’
‘You don’t seem very sure. I think this was a very personal murder. Committed by someone who knew him well. Someone who knew he was likely to gate-crash his son’s stag do. Not too many people would even know about it, never mind know where Ian was going to be that evening. A handful is all, I would think.’
‘Unless he posted in on Facebook,’ said Susie.
God, thought Rafferty. Don’t say that. The suggestion was a nightmare one for a policeman. It opened up a thousand possibilities he would really rather not think about...
‘But apart from my father’s killer being some cyber-stalker, we can’t help you, Inspector,’ Susie told him. ‘And if you think Ian’s innocent, you should release him. If you’ve no intention of doing that, I think you’ve outstayed your welcome.’
Reluctantly, Rafferty rose. If, subconsciously, he’d been hoping for a confession from one of them he’d been disappointed. But it was worth a try. Susie struck him as hard-headed—she’d made most of the responses while her mother had barely said a word. Yet if she was hoping for her brother to carry the can for her killing of her father she seemed remarkably persistent in insisting he hadn’t done it. A double bluff? Or simply a loving and innocent girl defending her brother?’
He was back in the office in less than the hour he’d promised Llewellyn. ‘Bradley show his face again?’ he asked as soon as he’d opened the door.
‘No. He went out only five minutes after you, Constable Beard on reception rang through to tell me.’ Llewellyn quirked an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Have you got Beard primed to keep you updated as to Superintendent Bradley’s movements?’
‘Too right. It only cost me a year’s subscription to his beloved Daily Mirror. He’s got an obsession with their crosswords. God knows why, as they always stump him.’
‘Changing the subject back to Superintendent Bradley’s movements. I went and questioned his secretary after Beard’s call. You might be interested to know that she doesn’t expect the superintendent back for the rest of the day.’
‘Good.’ Rafferty sat down, propped his feet on the desk, and told Llewellyn about his visit to the Sutherlands.
Llewellyn’s lips moved a fraction upwards, so Rafferty knew the idea amused him.
‘So what was it you expected to get from the visit? A confession from one of them?’
Rafferty shrugged. ‘Worth a shot, I thought. The “tortured killer”, aching to confess”, syndrome the psycho-babblers talk about. We’re running out of options, but one thing I’m becoming more and more convinced of is that one of them killed Sutherland and Mumford. All I need is the proof. Got any ideas how I can get it?’
Llewellyn shook his head.
‘Me neither. Maybe I’ll have to try a bit of subterfuge.’
Llewellyn’s lips did that tiny upward-lift again. ‘What are you going to do? Bug the place?’
‘It might come to that, but not just yet. I’m still hopeful that a guilty conscience will prompt one of them to admit it. I can’t see them leaving Ian to stew for something one of them did. It’s only a matter of time.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Llewellyn. ‘Tea?’
‘Please. And get me a sandwich, would you? I forgot to get one. Whatever the canteen’s got left.’ He dug a five-pound note out of his pocket and handed it over.
While Llewellyn got the teas in, Rafferty sat and stared out the window. A squall was blowing up. Rain began to lash the windows and looked set to continue doing so for the rest of the day if the dark skies were anything to go by. He was thankful he had no more visits planned, as he’d left his mac at home, and still hadn’t remembered to buy a new umbrella.
Llewellyn was soon back with the tea. ‘They only had a salad sandwich left in the canteen.’
Rafferty pulled a face, but he took the sandwich anyway, unwrapped it, and took a huge bite, pausing only to sip the hot tea to ease the limp lettuce down his gullet. ‘Reckon if I keep visiting the Sutherlands, they’ll crack?’
‘Or report you for harassment. Then Superintendent Bradley will know you’re still pursuing the case.’
‘God forbid. I can just imagine the wobbly he’d throw.’
Llewellyn sipped his own tea. He gazed at Rafferty over the top of his cup, and asked, ‘Why are you so sure Ian Sutherland’s innocent?’
‘I’m not. But I do feel I was—what did you call it? Prec—prec?’
‘Precipitate?’
‘Yeah, that. But I had Bradley pushing me for a result, and Sutherland seemed a gift, you know. Right on the spot and with a reason – several reasons – to want his dad dead.’
Llewellyn sipped his tea but said nothing.
‘I should have held off, I see that now. I should have argued with Bradley when he insisted I charged Sutherland. All I’ve succeeded in doing is making my job harder. Bradley’ll never listen if I go to him now and say I don’t think Sutherland’s guilty after all. He’s already had his head patted by Region and done his media charm-smarm. All he’ll want me to do is concentrate on making the charges stick.’ Rafferty slumped in his chair as he contemplated rocks and hard places. ‘Why does life have to be such a bitch? And don’t say I brought it on myself.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Llewellyn told him. ‘You seem to have persuaded yourself of that without my help.’
Rafferty stared challengingly at him for a moment, then let it go. He munched his way through the rest of his flavourless sandwich, slurped some more of his tea, and sighed again. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go through the motions with Sutherland, show willing and all that, to keep Bradley sweet.’
‘But meanwhile?’
‘Meanwhile, the investigation goes on. It’ll leave a nasty taste if Sutherland’s convicted. Not to mention ruining my track record, in my head at least, if not on the crime sheet.’
There were still witness statements trickling in on Sutherland’s and Mumford’s murders. Rafferty read his way through them, but there was nothing with even a glimmer of interest, nor likely to be now. He handed them over to Llewellyn. ‘Might as well bin them for all the good they are.’
Llewellyn, of course, didn’t take him up on his suggestion. He neatened the untidy pile of paperwork that Rafferty had handed him, shuffling it against the top of his desk until the edges were precisely aligned, and filed them safely in a buff folder, presumably to give them some added protection in case Rafferty’s paperwork seize-and-destroy inclinations should overcome him.
It seemed to Rafferty to be a pity to lose the rest of the day when he could be doing something on the murder case, especially with Bradley safely out of the way and unlikely to be again on his tail. He glanced out of the window. It was still chucking it down. He was reluctant to leave the office and get a soaking crossing the car park, but he swilled down the rest of his tea and hauled himself to his feet anyway.
‘Going out again?’
‘While the cat’s away. Come with me if you like—unless you’re worried about blotting your pristine copy-book.’
Llewellyn looked down his nose at this suggestion. ‘Perhaps, like you, I’m more concerned with blotting the annals of justice on this case.’ Llewellyn rose and pulled on his mac—unlike Rafferty, he’d obviously shown sufficient prescience that morning. Or else he’d listened to the weather forecast before leaving home.
Rafferty dredged a grin from somewhere. ‘Good man. Let’s go.’
‘Where are we going, anyway?’
‘We’re going on the knocker. I thought we might question the people who live opposite The Railway Arms.’
‘But they’ve already been questioned once. What do you hope to achieve?’
‘God knows. Something. Anything. It’s better than sitting on my arse here, twiddling my thumbs and drowning in tea.’
Rafferty drove. In spite of the traffic, which the rain had brought out, the journey didn’t take more than a few minutes. He parked in the yard of The Railway Arms, got out of the car and looked around him, recalling the night of Keith Sutherland’s murder and how spooked it had made him feel as he had waited alone in the dark for the cavalry to arrive. Ridiculous, really, looking back on it, but at the time the uneasiness had been real enough. Perhaps he’d sensed au aura of evil? But he was getting fanciful. Not to mention soaked. He wrung out his dripping hair, pushed it into some sort of order, and said, ‘Come on,’ to Llewellyn, as he shrugged aside his remembered spooks and headed across the road.
***
THE FIRST DOOR HE KNOCKED on brought no response. Of course at this time of day most people were at work. He tried the next door. This time they struck luckier in that one of the householders was in but struck out when she told them the family sat in the back room, not the front, so had seen nothing.
The next door was another no response. It wasn’t until they got to the last house in the row that their luck changed. An elderly man answered the door. He was taciturn at first, disinclined to answer their questions, but he thawed and invited them in, when Rafferty mentioned that he was a friend of the landlord of The Railway Arms.
‘Good bloke, Andy.’ Cyril Matlock introduced himself as he bid them to be seated in his front living room. ‘Always got time for an old man, not like some pub landlords nowadays. Doesn’t moan, either, when I sit nursing a half of mild all evening.’ He eased himself into an armchair with some difficulty, rasped his hand across his whiskery chin, and asked how he could help.
‘It’s about the night of the murder, Mr Matlock. The one that occurred in the pub yard.’
‘I’ve already been asked about that. There were a couple of your blokes knocking on doors in the street, mine included, the morning after. Awful thing to happen to Andy Strong. He runs a tidy pub. Mind, I know for a fact his trade’s increased. Usual thing I suppose—ghouls coming to see where it happened. See if they can spot any bloodstains.’ He shook his head at this inexplicable modern world, and his wispy hair lifted from his scalp and fell back down again. ‘I was sitting in here that evening as usual, listening to the radio, and watching out for passing yobbos. Some of them like to pee in my front garden, you know. I nearly caught one once, but I can’t move so quickly now, not with this arthritis, and he got away.’
Just as well, probably. Some youths would knife you just for looking at them the wrong way, was Rafferty’s silent response.
‘And what did you see, Mr Matlock? Did you notice anyone going into the car park pretty late in the evening?’
‘I saw a gang of yobs. Probably seeing what they could steal, but they left well before the stabbing. I saw a few other people, as well, later on, but they were older, and all in twos or threes, and that was before I saw Keith Sutherland staggering out of the pub and round to the car park. A bunch of lads came out just after him, but they headed into town. One of them was his son, Ian, I think.’
Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn. Here was justification for his doubts about Ian Sutherland’s guilt. ‘You’re sure all the five lads headed into town, sir?’ he questioned quietly.
‘Sure I’m sure. They were all shouting and carrying on. I was in two minds about going out and telling them to put a sock in it, as the neighbours have a fretful baby.’
‘You knew Keith Sutherland and his son?’
’Yes, of course. I’ve known Keith for years. I know all the regulars and Keith was more regular than most, if you get my drift. Don’t see so much of Ian, now, but he comes in occasionally.’ He grinned. ‘Mostly when he thinks his father won’t be in there. Difficult man, Keith. Very difficult. Anyway, where else would I go? It’s my local. I can’t walk far. The beer’s good. The landlord knows his trade. And it’s just across the street. Why would I go anywhere else?’
Rafferty felt an excited little tremor start in his stomach. He damped it down. ‘Tell me, Mr Matlock—did you see anyone leave the car park just after Keith Sutherland entered it?’
Mr Matlock nodded. ‘Yes. Saw some woman, that’s all. On a bike. But it couldn’t have been her that killed him. That’s why I never mentioned her to that other policeman.’
‘Why not?’
Mr Matlock quoted his own beliefs back at him. ‘Knifing’s not a woman’s crime. And Keith was a big man, not easy to attack, even if he was at the staggering stage.’
Easy enough, thought Rafferty, if he’s already at the staggering, half-cut stage, and had his back to the assailant. Of course, they hadn’t released to the media the fact that he had been stabbed in the back. It was always as well to keep something back. But to be only now learning about the woman on the bike made him re-think the wisdom of this practise. ‘Can you describe this woman? Can you describe her bike? What she wearing?’
‘You’re not serious? Can’t have been her. Looked like a vicar’s wife, what with the wicker basket on the front of her bike.’
‘Maybe you ought to read the papers more, Mr Matlock. There’s been a spate of stories in recent years about the supposedly moral priesthood and their immoral behaviour, vicars’ wives included.’
Mr Matlock looked pensive for a moment, then his gaze turned speculative. ‘Reckon I could. Describe her, that is. Is there a reward?’
‘No reward beyond doing your civic duty, sir.’ God, he thought, how pompous did that sound?
Cyril Matlock snorted at this. ‘Keith Sutherland’s no great loss to the world. Argumentative sort.’
‘The woman, Mr Matlock. What can you tell me about her?’
‘All right, all right. I didn’t see her face. She had a scarf well over most of it and had her head down.’
‘Would you say she was young or old? Fat or thin?’
‘Middle-aged would be my guess. And she was a bit on the dumpy side. Mind, she fairly raced out of the pub yard for an old ‘un.’ He pierced them with a suddenly much sharper gaze. ‘Do you really reckon she was the one who done it?’
Rafferty nodded. ‘I reckon she might be, at that.’ He paused, then asked, ‘and what about the bike? Could you see the colour?’
‘Yes. The bike’s easy. It was white. A woman’s bike. It had a wicker basket on the front as I said.’
Rafferty beamed at the old man. ‘Thank you, sir. You’ve been a great help. Shame you never mentioned her to the officers you spoke to before.’
‘I might have done, but they seemed so set on it being a man that had killed Keith, I thought no more about the woman. They only wanted to know what men I’d seen.’
Rafferty’s beam faded. All these days, all the man hours wasted when the case could have been solved days ago. Someone was going to get a roasting when he got back to the station.
‘Can you come back with us, sir and give a formal statement? Just for the record.’ And to have something concrete to show to Bradley when he was ready to break the news about Ian Sutherland’s innocence.
‘Certainly. As long as someone drives me back, as I can’t walk far. And not one of those boy racer types.’
Rafferty’s glance alighted on Llewellyn, and he smiled at Mr Matlock. ‘Don’t worry, sir. ‘I think I’ve got the perfect chauffeur for you.’
Rafferty did his best to curtail his excitement. He was anxious to get Mr Matlock’s statement down on paper and get it signed; just in case the old guy turned his toes up from sheer excitement at being such a centre of attention. He didn’t send for a junior officer to take the old man’s statement once they got back to the station. This was one statement he wanted to take himself. It didn’t take long. Rafferty and Llewellyn escorted the old man to the rear yard, and Rafferty waved them off with the unnecessary admonition to Llewellyn to: ‘drive carefully.’
***
RAFFERTY WAS STILL trying and failing to keep his excitement in check when Llewellyn returned. ‘Looks like I was half right,’ Rafferty told him as soon as he’d opened their office door. ‘Only our killer is Mary Sutherland rather than Susie.’ He could no more suppress the triumphalist element in his voice than he could his excitement as his beliefs were vindicated. ‘How the hell did we miss her and that bike on the CCTV?’
‘I suppose because we were looking for a car. It can hardly be a common occurrence for someone intent on murder to use a push-bike as their getaway vehicle of choice.’
Rafferty found he could no more suppress the grin than he could his other tumbled emotions. That such an element as the killer’s mode of transport should have sent them so wrong for so long, had to appeal to his off-centre sense of humour. And it did. But both grin and triumph faded a few seconds later. ‘But it’s still not proof. One old man, probably with defective eyesight, doesn’t make for a strong case against her.’
‘Then it’s up to us to find something to strengthen it.’
Rafferty nodded and wished he had any idea what that something could be. And if Mary Sutherland had used the back-doubles rather than the main road in order to get home after murdering her husband, it was possible she didn’t even appear on the CCTV.
