It was after nine when Rafferty got home. He’d barely got out of his jacket, when his brother, Mickey, turned up. He looked as if he’d been crying. Rafferty sighed inwardly. Bang went his thoughts of relaxing with Abra for what remained of the evening. He stifled the sigh and found a smile from somewhere. ‘Mickey. What’s the matter?’
Mickey sniffed, ran his arm over his nose, and said, ‘My girlfriend. Tara. She’s dumped me.’
Rafferty thought, Again? Mickey and Tara had been together for five years. It was a tempestuous relationship at the best of times. Tara was the sort of girl who always tried to better her man, whereas Mickey, a trained carpenter and joiner, was perfectly happy as he was, and tended to treat her bettering attempts as some sort of joke. It seemed, this time, as though the joke was on him. He looked bewildered as well as upset.
‘Come in. Come in,’ said Rafferty. ‘It’ll be something and nothing. You know what you two are like.’
Mickey shook his head, but allowed himself to be led by the arm into the living room. Rafferty sat him down, and thrust a glass of Jamesons at him. Over Mickey’s head, Rafferty mouthed, They’ve split up, at Abra.
She just nodded, as if she already knew, or suspected.
‘She’ll come round,’ he said. ‘She always does, you know that.’
Mickey shook his head again. ‘Not this time. She’s adamant.’
‘I can’t believe that.’
Mickey clutched his glass of Irish whiskey tightly, and looked as if he was about to start blubbing. Rafferty hurried to prevent that. He wasn’t up to coping with emotional scenes this evening.
‘She’ll come round. I know she will. Now drink up and I’ll get you another.’ Rafferty quickly poured him a second drink.
‘She’s chucked me out.’ He looked sorrowfully at his glass, tossed it off, as if it didn’t touch the sides, and held out his glass.
Unthinkingly, Rafferty poured, and then gave himself another one. He’d need it, if what Mickey said was true, because she’d never done that before. Of course, it was Tara’s flat. She’d had it when she and Mickey met. He’d moved in and there he’d stayed. That was another bone of contention. Tara wanted a house, or at least a bigger flat. Mickey saw no reason to lumber themselves with a hefty mortgage, and wanted to just continue to have a good time, as they’d always had.
The whiskey had started to take its effect on Rafferty. He always grew garrulous with drink, and this time was no exception. ‘Then you’ll just have to woo her back. Remember when me and Abra split? Desperate times call for desperate remedies, bro. Bombard her with gifts. Flowers, chocolates. Anything you can think of. It got us back together, didn’t it, sweetheart?’
‘Joe—’
‘Do you think so?’
There was such longing in Mickey’s voice, it gave even the garrulous Rafferty pause for thought. But he didn’t pause for long. Confidently, he went on. ‘Course I do. Certain of it. Just got to be a bit more romantic. You know you’re a bit diffident when it comes to the old romancing. That’s your trouble.’
Mickey began to look hopeful. ‘And you think, if I do that, I’ll persuade her to let me back?’'
‘Joe—’ Abra tried again, with no more success.
‘Sure of it. You just need to have more confidence in yourself. That’s always been your trouble, ever since you were a nipper. Go in there like you’re Superman, not diffident Clark Kent.’
Mickey began to flex his muscles, and Rafferty smiled.
‘That’s it. Superman. Have another drink. I’ll have one, as well, just to keep you company.’ He grinned as he poured. ‘We’ll have a proper plan of campaign. Hang on. I’ll get a pen and paper.’
‘Joe—’
‘In a minute, sweetheart. This is important.’ Rafferty was getting a long-delayed second wind. He rushed from the room. He was soon back. ‘Right. Military Campaign. I’ll be the General and you can be my batman. We’ll start with flowers, I think. Red roses. Definitely red roses.’
Mickey looked more cheerful with each of Rafferty’s pronouncements. He even giggled. ‘Not Superman. Batman. Batman and Robin.’
‘That’s the spirit. Now—’
Abra gave up. ‘There’s a bedroom made up. I’m going to bed. Night, Mickey. Night, Batman.’
Abra went out, shaking her head. They were so deep in their campaign, apart from a chorus of ‘Night, sweetheart,’ and ‘Night, Abra,’ they barely noticed her going.
***
Mickey hadn’t looked too good the following morning when Rafferty woke him with a cup of tea and a dose of Paracetamol. But Rafferty had retrieved their previous night’s battle plan, and left him clutching their plan, trying to look suitably militaristic. He’d brought Abra a cup, but she’d still been fast asleep, and he’d left her with a kiss.
He drove slowly to the office so as not to disturb his headache. When he went in, he saw Mary in the detectives’ office, looking over the shoulder of the police artist, and he went in.
The artist was working on the picture of the woman who had been so adamant that she hadn’t known their victim. While Rafferty nursed his throbbing head and thought, never again, he found his interest sparked.
Mary glanced over, took one look at Rafferty and raised her eyebrows, and went back to working with the artist.
‘Her face was a bit narrower. Too much.’ She waited while the artist adjusted it. ‘That’s better. Take a bit off her eyebrows, they weren’t that pronounced.’ She looked at it again, then nodded. ‘That’s it. That’s her. Wouldn’t you say, Inspector?’
‘I only got a fleeting glimpse of her,’ Rafferty said, wincing as he straitened up too quickly. And then his mind had been on other things. ‘But if you’re sure?’
Mary nodded. ‘I am.’
‘Okay. There’s damn all else happening on this investigation. Get it out to the media. It’s the only suspicious sniff we’ve had so far.’
He left her to do the necessary. And once Rafferty had fortified himself with a mug of tea and another brace of Paracetamol, he and Llewellyn headed out for their second encounter with the profs. Forensics were still on site, Rafferty anticipated an interesting encounter. He was thankful the painkillers were doing their stuff at last.
Llewellyn had driven, much to the Welshman’s surprise. As they got out of the car, he glanced across, with a look of disapproval. ‘You really shouldn’t drink heavily in the middle of a murder investigation.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
‘And then there’s Abra. If you had to drive in the middle of the night with—’
‘I know, all right?’ He thought of telling Llewellyn about Mickey, and then thought better of it. He wouldn’t think anything was sufficient excuse to turn up for work the worse for wear, and he was right. But he was damned if he’d admit it, especially to Llewellyn at his most prim and proper. Mickey wouldn’t thank him, either. He probably thought his secret was safe with him. But that was to discount Tara, and the girlfriends into whose ears she was undoubtedly pouring out her troubles and complaints even now. In a strained silence, Llewellyn parked up, and they walked across the area where the site workers’ cars were.
They were spotted as soon as they rounded the trees at the edge of the dig. A deputation hurried towards them led by Professor Fanshaw, with his two henchmen, Profs Wiley and Pace, at either shoulder.
‘Inspector. I really must protest. When are these men going to allow us to do our work? You know our time is limited before the farmer, Mr Giles, is going to insist on getting back to plant his blasted fields and—’
Rafferty held his hand up at the approach. Fortunately, he’d taken the precaution, before putting an appearance in at the site, of ringing Adrian Appleby, the Head Crime Scene Investigator, to find out when they’d be off the site. Appleby had told him half a day, tops, so he’d judged it prudent to show his face.
‘Professor. I’m sorry about the inconvenience, but the forensic team will be finished in a couple of hours.’ He looked at the professor, in his green Barbour coat, with his long black and silver hair, and watched his aggression deflate like a red balloon.
‘Oh, I see. I don’t know why these men couldn’t have told me that themselves.’ He directed a basilisk stare at the forensics team. But they were used to working under far more difficult situations than the glare from a professor of archaeology and his henchmen, and gave no sign that they’d even noticed they were intended to feel discomfited. They went quietly on with their work. But knowing Adrian Appleby, rubbed up the wrong way, he’d have been deliberately vague. Rafferty couldn’t blame him, as the Professor, with his friends at his shoulder like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, had undoubtedly been on his case since the body had been found.
Now the Professor was all smiles. His favourite toy was back in play. He even invited Rafferty to play with it.
‘Have you seen any of our finds?’
When Rafferty shook his head, the Professor gripped his arm, and pulled him towards the caravanettes in a burst of enthusiasm, gushing, ‘Oh, you must. They really are very good in their way. Roman, you know, but we’ve also found evidence of a Celtic settlement. And what I regard as our star find.’
His acolytes were equally enthusiastic. Professor Pace smiled at him. ‘Arrowheads,’ he confided, nodding shyly.
‘Really?’ said Rafferty, as he wondered at the Professor’s ability to get excited about what he knew from watching the Time-team programme on the telly, were really pretty common.
‘Not only arrowheads,’ Professor Fanshaw corrected, his air slightly superior. ‘You really must forgive Professor Pace, Inspector, but they’re something of a speciality of his, you know. He forgets that the common man finds them really rather boring. They want the treasures of something like Sutton Hoo before they get excited.’
‘And have you found anything like that?’ Rafferty enquired as his interest was piqued, his pride only a little dented at being lumped in with the common man. It was what he thought of himself, after all, what he was at heart.
‘In a way,’ responded Professor Fanshaw. ‘One of our finds is every bit as intriguing. But have a look for yourself.’
By now, they’d reached the caravanettes. The Professor clambered up the steps. Professor Pace held back.
‘After you, Inspector.’
Rafferty smiled his thanks and entered after Fanshaw. He gazed around him with interest. There was a young man seated on one of the banquettes. He looked up from where he was washing some finds, an expression of annoyance, quickly masked. ‘Professor,’ he muttered, then went back to his task, a set expression on his face.
‘Young Daniels,’ Pace introduced him. ‘This is Inspector Rafferty,’ he said. ‘Come to see some of our finds.’
Daniels raised his head again, and nodded at him, but took no more interest, and went back to washing his bits of pottery.
Professor Fanshaw had been rooting around in the corner. When he stood up, Rafferty saw there was a safe ingeniously concealed under one of the banquettes. Behind him, he saw Llewellyn clamber into the caravanette, so with all three of the Professors and Rafferty himself looming over him, Daniels must have felt it quite challenging to go on with his work as if nothing was happening. Rafferty would, at his age. But Daniels must be used to working in cramped conditions because, apart from that quickly concealed look of annoyance, which Fanshaw seemed oblivious to, he was just methodically continuing with his work.
‘Take a look at this, Inspector.’
Rafferty raised his head. Fanshaw was holding up what looked like a bronze helmet. It had been cleaned, he saw. And there was extraordinarily intricate design on it. He found himself reaching out his hand. ‘Can I hold it?’ he asked.
Professor Fanshaw hesitated, as if he was entrusting his most precious child. Then he nodded. ‘Very well. But be careful.’
Fanshaw put it into Rafferty’s outstretched hands. And Rafferty found himself staring at it, fascinated. ‘How old?’
‘It’s Celtic, certainly. See the design?’
Rafferty nodded.
‘That’s Celtic, but rather unusual.’
Rafferty hefted the helmet in his hands, imagined himself a Celtic warrior roaring into battle, and Professor Fanshaw’s voice faded, as hordes of similarly attired men roared alongside him. He was only drawn from the testosterone-fest by Fanshaw’s voice.
‘Inspector. Inspector Rafferty. Have you heard a word I’ve said?’
Rafferty nodded. ‘Of course.’ But the excitement of battle had brought his hangover thumping back. He thrust the helmet back at Fanshaw. ‘Very impressive. But what I actually came here to find out is whether you’ve written that list of your staff yet?
‘What?’
‘A list. Of your staff here at the dig, where they were located around the time of the murder, and the dumping of the body. We’ll need to exonerate them from our investigation. I asked you before, if you remember.’
The professor dismissed the dead man with the air of one with far more important things on his mind. ‘Oh that. You can get that from our site supervisor, Humphrey Wiggins. He’ll know where everybody was. I can’t be expected to know who’s here at any given time. I’m often away. I divide my time between here and the university. Ask Wiggins. He’s your man.’
Rafferty masked his annoyance. ‘And he’ll be able to provide me with statements of their whereabouts?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. I’m sure he can. Excellent chap. Very efficient. He’s the man to ask.’
‘Fine. Where do I find him?’
‘Ah. He’s not here. I sent him back to the university. Cambridge. To check some research. He’ll be back tomorrow. Surely it’ll wait till then?’
‘Of course.’ Rafferty cursed, aware he should have checked before. Then he silently cursed Llewellyn. He should have reminded him. Was he expected to remember everything? But he was, of course, as Superintendent Bradley would be sure to remind him. Another day wasted. He could have got the team checking out their alibis, that would keep them busy. God knew there were enough people milling about the dig. He was aware a lot of local people volunteered. Maybe their murderer was one of them. He came out of his introspection to glance at the professor.
But Professor Fanshaw had clearly lost any interest he had in him. He looked piqued. As if his precious child had been shown off and found wanting, the professor locked away the helmet again, his air of displeasure palpable, and wandered off with his fellow professors, muttering something about meetings. The caravanette rocked as they left. Rafferty had the distinct feeling that, for Fanshaw, nothing in this century counted for much, certainly not his murder investigation.
Feeling put in his place, definitely in this century, and therefore far out of the professor’s remit or interest, Rafferty looked at Daniels, still washing away, and grinned ruefully. Here was another man out of the professor’s remit or interest, to judge from the notice taken of him. ‘I can see that you get all the interesting jobs to do.’
Daniels looked, and grinned back. He seemed a different man now the profs had gone. ‘First year student,’ he said, as if that explained both his lack of importance to the profs, and his lowly task.
Rafferty nodded, and remembered Daniels’ look of surprise that Professor Pace had even bothered to introduce them. It was apparently the lot of first year students to get dishpan hands and be ignored more often than not. Much like first year probationary policemen.
‘I presume you didn’t know the dead man, either?’
Daniels shook his head. ‘It’s a regular mystery. Nobody knows who he is.’
‘Or nobody’s telling.’
Daniels looked curiously at him. ‘What? You think someone here knows who he was, then?’
‘I just wonder why, whoever dumped him, chose this out-of-the-way spot.’
‘Did you ever just consider they’d think it amusing?’
‘Amusing?
Daniels sat back against the banquette. ‘Well, we are in the business of digging up the dead and their artefacts. Perhaps whoever dumped him here thought we’d appreciate him. Or perhaps it was just someone who read about it in the papers and thought it appropriate. Local press. Nationals, too. We’ve had the lot. Fanshaw’s had his picture taken by all of them.’ The look of annoyance that flashed at the profs’ appearance was back, and it served to remind Rafferty that with such coverage, their murderer could easily have come from anywhere in the country.
‘Hmm,’ said Rafferty, slotting himself on to the opposite banquette, and gesturing to Llewellyn to sit down, too. ‘I see what you mean.’ He pulled a face. ‘A murderer with a sense of humour. Just what we need, hey, Dafyd?’
Daniels shrugged. ‘Just a thought. Only, if you’re checking us out, you might like to widen your scope.’
Rafferty sat for a few moments, turning it over. Then, to take his mind from the unwelcome thought that their murderer could indeed have come from anywhere, even abroad, after the media had put a mention of the dig out on the internet, he asked, ‘So, what do you think of archaeology as a career. Think you’ll last the course?’
‘If I get given something more interesting to do than wash pots.’ He sighed. ‘I had visions of Howard Carter, and King Tut, you know? But if there’s anything interesting, Fanshaw immediately takes it back to the university. For safekeeping, he says.’ He nodded at the safe that contained the Celtic helmet. ‘That’s the last you’ll see of that. Of course, with these Nighthawks, you can’t blame him.’
‘Difficult man to work for, is he, the prof?’
‘He’s all right, when you get to know him. Got a down on drugs, of course, his son dying from them as he did, so we have to be careful when we light up a spliff. But as he said, he’s not here half the time. No, it’s the Site Supervisor who makes my life a misery. Officious sod, he is. Finds fault with the least little thing. You’re lucky he’s gone to Cambridge, otherwise he’d be in here to see what you’re doing on the site now the body’s gone.’
Rafferty felt a wash of sympathy. He’d met Humphrey Wiggins on the first day. Once seen, never forgotten. Or once heard, anyway. His ears still ached from his shrill voice, demanding this, and demanding that. It served to remind him of its opposite, Bradley’s basso profundo. It was a wonder Bradley hadn’t rung him to find out where they were. And what they were doing back at the dig when the site was all but wrapped up as the scene of crime. He supposed he could always tell him he was doing his bit for customer relations, but he didn’t think that would go down too well, after, for a laugh, Rafferty had suggested the super’s Politeness in Interaction with Members of the Public programme or PIMP, for short. Very apt it was too. As a user of people, Bradley was second to none. It was weeks before Bradley cottoned on. Rafferty had managed to deny his suggestion had carried any ulterior motive. Bradley always assumed he was as ignorant of English as most coppers low down the totem pole, so was forced to believe his denial. But anyone’s English couldn’t help but improve after working with Llewellyn for months, though Bradley, as he made sure he had no opportunity to get to know his inferiors on a personal level; didn’t know that. It was his superiors he sucked up to.
Rafferty almost sniggered as he savoured the memory of Bradley’s face when he realised, then remembered Daniels’ presence, and recollected himself.
His mobile rang, and he prepared himself for the Superintendent. But to his surprise it wasn’t Bradley wanting to chew his ear off. It was someone far more welcome, far more interesting. Someone from the Drug Squad.
***
‘The Drug Squad?’
Rafferty and Llewellyn had said goodbye to Daniels and made their way back to the car.
‘Yeah. They think the dead man might be a certain Joey Briggs.’ Rafferty climbed in the driver’s seat, waited till Llewellyn had got in the passenger side, and held out his hand for the keys. With an air of reluctance, Llewellyn handed them over. ‘I’m well safe to drive now, even by your reckoning.’
Llewellyn ignored that. ‘Only think?’
‘They said he hasn’t been a customer of theirs for at least six years. Last they heard, they said, was that he’d gone abroad. Gone to take his nasty habits to the drug capitals of Europe, I suppose.’ Rafferty started the car. ‘And you said yourself what damage drugs do to the appearance.’ They bumped slowly up the farmer’s rutted track to the main road. ‘I remember Joey. Strictly small-time. Though he had a way with him. Well, a way with women, anyway. The corpse had a look of him.’ He’d thought there was something familiar about their cadaver, but he had been unable to place him before. ‘When we get back to the station, get his form on screen, and we’ll take a look at him.’
They reached the main road, and Rafferty drove off with a roar from the engine while Llewellyn hurriedly strapped himself in. Then he sat, with his hand clutching the glovebox and his foot hovering over an imaginary brake, all the way to the station, till Rafferty was forced to expostulate.
‘Give it a rest, do. Anybody would think I crash the car every week, instead of never.’ He ignored the muttered, ‘Think of the near misses.’
Once they reached their office, Llewellyn called up Joey Briggs’s Crime Sheet. Rafferty stood at his shoulder. ‘Quite a rap list,’ he commented. ‘He looked a bit healthier then. Get the picture of the corpse up, and let’s compare them.’ But Rafferty was certain now, and needed no reminder. The name was enough. Joey Briggs was as small-time as he remembered, though he’d always dreamed of bigger things, crime things, that would make him rich. Always a dreamer, Joey. He supposed it was part of his attraction to women. Well, that and his glib tongue. Never short of a word, was Joey. Perhaps it was his glib tongue that had got him murdered.
Llewellyn pressed a few buttons and there was their corpse.
‘Hmm.’ Rafferty might have been certain, but he wanted to make sure, if for no other reason than he wanted Llewellyn to be sure, too. He didn’t want him dragging uncertain feet behind him. ‘Nose is the same aquiline, though our man looks as if he’s broken it since his last Happy Camper picture was taken. Same neat ears, and his mouth’s the same, too. He’s a bit leaner about the gills, but that’s explained by his continuing drug habit.’ Rafferty straightened up. ‘I think we might have identified our cadaver, Dafyd.’
‘Yes. I’d say so, too.’
‘Known associates?’ Rafferty remembered a few of them, too. Most of them as small-time as Joey.
Llewellyn brought them up. ‘Of course, these are six years old. It looks as though the Drug Squad’s right, and that Mr Briggs went abroad. There’s certainly nothing more recent. They mightn’t have spoken to one another in the intervening years.’
‘True. But it can’t hurt to pay a few little visits. If nothing else, we might get confirmation of his foreign travels. Make a note of their addresses and we’ll renew old acquaintances.’
Rafferty shrugged into his jacket while Llewellyn jotted down the addresses of Briggs’s known associates.
‘Okay?’ Llewellyn nodded. ‘Then let’s go.’
***
Harry Dewhurst looked very prosperous. He even had the paunch to prove it. But he still had the mean eyes of a man who’d made his money off the back of others’ suffering.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen,’ he said as he handed back their carefully scrutinised warrant cards and leaned back against his padded chair.
‘Joey Briggs. Remember him?’
‘Joey Briggs?’
‘Surely you remember him. About five foot ten, skinny, single tattoo. J loves L.’
‘Yes, now you’ve reminded me, I do remember him. I haven’t seen him for must be five, six years. Why? What’s he done?’
‘He’s gone and got himself murdered.’
‘Careless of him.’ Dewhurst looked blandly back at them. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But as I said, I haven’t seen Joey for a long time.’ His mouth developed a slight sneer. ‘He was always a bit of a loser, as I recall.’
‘So who’s “L”?’
‘No idea. Bit on the side? Previous girlfriend? His wife was called Tracey. Quite a looker, but with a mouth on her that could strip paint.’
Rafferty remembered, having occasionally encountered the paint-stripper.
‘Do you know if he spent time abroad?’
‘I did hear something of the sort. Marbella, wasn’t it?’
‘Was it?’
Dewhurst shrugged. ‘Just something I heard. Don’t know whether it’s true or not. I’m sorry I can’t be more help to you gents, but as I said, it’s been a long time. Always a bit too fond of the nose candy.’ He paused, then added, ‘And everything else. Not a man likely to collect his pension.’
‘It wasn’t his drug habit that finished him off,’ Rafferty said.
‘No. Murdered, you said.’
‘That’s right.’ Rafferty was keeping what had caused Joey’s death under wraps in the hope that some of the dead man’s low-life associates would convict themselves. But clearly Harry Dewhurst wasn’t about to make a present of himself. He hadn’t got where he was – the big house, daughters at private school – by falling into police traps.
‘I wish I could help. But as I said, I haven’t seen him for years. Joey and I went our separate ways. Me, to this,’ he looked around him with a satisfied air, ‘and Joey to, well, who knows? Now, if there’s nothing else I can help you gentlemen with, I’ll have my wife see you out.’ He pulled a bell at the side of his desk, and summoned his wife like a Victorian skivvy.
Clearly, Dewhurst wanted them gone. Probably spoilt his image now that he was so prosperous, having the boys in blue come calling.
His wife came in answer to Dewhurst’s summons. To Rafferty’s surprise, Mrs Dewhurst was the original model, with wrinkled brow and crow’s feet around the eyes. Rafferty smiled quietly to himself. What he’d give to take a look inside her head. All Harry’s secrets must be stored in there. No wonder he didn’t sport a piece of arm candy. She probably knew too much to ever go quietly. She knew enough, too, of Harry’s ways, to safeguard herself.
‘Inspector?’
He met her eyes.
‘May I see you out?’
‘Of course.’ He inclined his head. ‘Mr Dewhurst.’
‘Nice to meet you, gentlemen.’
Rafferty’s grim smile didn’t reciprocate the sentiment. Neither did the look in Dewhurst’s eyes.
When they got outside, and a dutifully smiling Mrs Dewhurst had shut the door, Rafferty burst out, ‘God, to think of it. A man like that living high on the hog. Enough to make you burst a blood vessel.’
‘Do you want to hear the policeman’s quotation? To save your spleen.’
Rafferty looked wary for second, then resigned, he said, ‘Go on, then. Why not? I’ve heard the rest of your quotes. Some Ancient Greek geezer, is it? Not old Seneca, by any chance?’
‘No. Not as far as I know. It’s, “What goes around comes around”.’
‘Well. I suppose we can always hope. Just don’t hold your breath.’ Because the Dewhurst’s of this world, with their expensive lawyers and army of lackeys always ready to give them an alibi for anything at all, up to and including murder, were nigh on impregnable.
‘Come on,’ said Rafferty. He eyed the decorative stones lining the drive. ‘Let’s get out of here before I’m tempted to put one of them stones through their windows.’