Death Dues (26 page)

‘Is that all?’ It wasn’t much considering he’d had to make the concession of inviting Nigel to the wedding. And it wasn’t as if Nigel’s man was a wedding professional. But as Nigel had made clear, beggars had to bite the bullet and accept what they could get. He didn’t understand why Nigel was so keen on getting a wedding invitation. Perhaps he only wanted an opportunity to sneer? He just hoped Abra never learned that the man who was to capture their wedding for posterity photographed houses for a living.

After his humbling brainwave on the photographer front, he was driving back to the station when another brainwave came to him; one to do with their murder investigation this time, which made a change. He told Llewellyn about it as soon as he got back to the office.

‘We already know there was collusion between the residents indebted to Forbes. They agreed to lie about not seeing Harrison on the afternoon he was murdered But what if they colluded
before
his death?’

‘What? All of them? Like Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express, you mean? Old Emily Parker and the two young women, too? Surely not?’

‘A collusion too far, you think?’

‘I’d say so.’

Rafferty grunted. ‘Maybe you’re right. It was just an idea.’

‘Not one that runs, I wouldn’t think.’

‘Try this one for size then. I had another idea. Well, actually, I put two unconnected thoughts together. I might have come out with five. Tell me what you think. Tracey Stubbs was described as a bit of a goer by Tony Moran. Clearly, with three kids and another on the way and all by different fathers according to the gossip on the street, she’s no Virgin Mary.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I was wondering if one of her kids might not be by Jaws Harrison and—’

‘Jaws Harrison? Why would he have anything to do with Ms Stubbs? It’s not as if she’s in debt to Forbes and—’

‘And decided to pay him in kindness? No. I know that. Not now, she’s not. But maybe she took out a loan from him earlier and paid it off.’

‘I still don’t see what it could have to do with the murder even if she did have a previous loan. Surely it’s the here and now with which we should be concerned?’

Rafferty wasn’t entirely sure himself where he was going with this one, but he persevered. ‘Maybe he encouraged her to pay him in kindness a few times and she fell pregnant by him?’

‘And she decided to get her revenge?’

Rafferty nodded.

Llewellyn looked sceptical as well he might. Rafferty realised that he should have thought about this longer and deeper before he’d shoved his thoughts out into the cold light of day and Llewellyn’s even colder logic.

‘She’s almost due to have her baby,’ Llewellyn pointed out. ‘If that’s the one John Harrison is meant to have fathered. Any attack can hardly have been prompted by a murderous rage about his impregnating her if that’s what you’re implying. If so, surely it would have occurred at the time she discovered she was pregnant?’

Rafferty wasn’t sure what he was implying. ‘I know that, as a theory, it’s got a few flaws in it,’ he admitted. ‘But I think I’m on to something.’ It was clear that Llewellyn didn’t agree with him. But although he said nothing further, Rafferty had a feeling he was on the right lines. He just wished he knew where his subconscious thought it was heading. Frustrated, he said, ‘Let’s get over to the factory and speak to Billy Jones’s supervisor.’

Before they went into the factory, Rafferty poked his head around the corner of the building and saw how Jones had managed to climb the high wall. Leaning drunkenly against it were a pile of sturdy wooden palettes which would make climbing the eight foot wall easy. Once on top all he would have to do was ease himself down by his hands and drop a couple of feet. He was willing to bet that Billy had taken the opportunity to dump a few palettes over the wall to facilitate his easy ingress to the factory premises.

The supervisor, a Mr Simpson, confirmed what Billy Jones had said and handed over his time card. The card agreed with what both Jones and Simpson had said. So that was that. Another possible trail come to a dead end.

Rafferty, determined to get something else organised on the wedding front, went and saw Nigel again before he tried any other avenues in the investigation. Having had no joy amongst his colleagues for a cost free honeymoon, he turned again to his last resort. His cousin Nigel had just returned from what, to judge by his tight waistband, had been a very good lunch. He was in a mellow mood and greeted Rafferty in a jocular manner.

'Oh, look,' he said to no one in particular. 'It's the poor relation come to beg for more scraps from the rich cousin's table. Shame I didn't ask the waiter for a doggie bag.'

Funny man. 'I've had my lunch, thank you, Nigel. I came to see you about something else.'

'Oh, yes. And what might that be?'

Rafferty didn't beat about the bush. 'Seeing as we're back in the business of giving and receiving family favours, how are you fixed for lending us a holiday home?'

'A holiday home? This'll be for the honeymoon, I take it?' asked Nigel.

'That's right. I wondered if you might have branched out into foreign lets and sales.'

'As a matter of fact, I have. It's another new venture. It's not been going long, but it's doing well.'

'I'm looking for a nice villa in the south of France. At special family rates, of course.'

Nigel smiled. 'I'm surprised you're asking me. Surely some of your overpaid police colleagues have a holiday home or two between them?'

'Never mix business and pleasure. That's always been my motto.' In truth, he'd have been willing enough to mix the two if only one of his colleagues had co-operated, it being preferable to get a free loan of a holiday let for the honeymoon than pay out whatever Nigel thought reasonable. Unfortunately Kenneth Drummond, the colleague he had most recently tried to talk into the rental, had turned him down flat after playing with him for several days. 'Perhaps you can let me have a brochure?'

'Certainly.' Nigel whipped a colour brochure out of his desk drawer. 'And seeing as you'll be renting in June before the holiday season gets into full swing, I can give you a ten per cent discount on the usual price. Most of my clients would be glad enough to get a two-week booking at a time they'd normally expect their places to be empty not to quibble about the price reduction.' He nodded at the brochure. 'You and Abra have a look through that and let me know your choice and I'll get it booked for you.'

Rafferty hefted the brochure. 'Thanks Nigel. I'll get back to you once we've had a look through this.'

'You do that. I shall want a ten per cent deposit, of course. Cash will be fine.'

I'll bet, thought Rafferty. What was Nigel up to? Was he letting his clients' property on the side and pocketing the money? He wouldn't put it past him. And who would be any the wiser, as long as the clients didn't turn up at their holiday home out of the blue and find, like Father Bear in the nursery rhyme, that someone had been sleeping in
his
bed?

Rafferty, not wanting to have his and Abra's honeymoon ruined by owners turning up unexpectedly, said, 'I hope this is kosher, Nigel. Abra would never forgive me if we're turfed out of our honeymoon villa in the middle of the night by the arrival of irate owners.'

'You worry too much. It'll never happen. Trust me.'

It was clear Nigel wasn't worried. But then it wouldn't be his honeymoon that was ruined. He probably already had his excuses ready in case the owner found out. An oversight. A misfiled booking. A genuine error of some sort. Nigel would wriggle out of it somehow and if the worse happened he'd lose a client, whereas Rafferty would lose a good start to his married life and give Abra a stick to beat him with forever. But, he reasoned, if Nigel could take a chance so could he. A ten per cent reduction on the price wasn't to be sneezed at. And at least it would be one more thing on his list organised.

Abra had the holiday brochures out and spread all over the coffee table and settee when Rafferty arrived home. She was surrounded by them, each cover destination looked more exotic and costly than the previous one.

'You can put those away, sweetheart,' Rafferty told her as he flung his coat over the back of the settee and flourished Nigel's brochure. 'Your hero has saved the day. I got us a good deal on a villa in the south of France.'

'The south of France? But I fancied somewhere more far-flung for our honeymoon.'

'There's nothing wrong with the south of France. And do you really want to spend the best part of a day either way scrunched up in an airplane seat when we might be enjoying our own pool and celebratory bubbly?'

'Well, when you put it like that…'

'You know it makes sense,' Rafferty, willing to take a lead from his more successful cousin’s
modus operandi
, pushed his advantage as if the decision was a
fait accompli
already. 'We'll have a look through this brochure after dinner and choose somewhere nice.'

Abra glanced at the cover of the brochure and pursed her lips when she saw the name ‘
Blythe’s Villa’s’
emblazoned on the front with Nigel’s usual in-your-face
braggadocio.
Rafferty, impressed by his own suddenly flourishing linguistic skills, wished Llewellyn could somehow witness them. The Welshman thought Rafferty’s use of the
English
language sadly lacking
.
'Don't tell me that's Nigel's firm?'

'The very same. That's why I got a good deal. It's all kosher,' he quickly assured her crossing his fingers for luck. 'And there are some lovely places in here. And won't it be good to get our honeymoon sorted?'

Abra still looked doubtful. 'Nigel though. You know what a double-dealing, underhand so-and-so he can be. Are you sure he won't cheat you?'

'He'd better not. I'm a policeman, remember? No, even Nigel knows better than to cheat the law. He might be a ducker and diver, but he's not daft.'

'I'll get dinner dished up. 'Abra crawled from under the pile of brochures, tidied them into a neat heap and went into the kitchen.

After dinner, they settled down together on the settee and went through Nigel's brochure.

'There are some lovely places in here,' Abra commented. 'Look at that one. It's got a huge swimming pool, a barbeque pit and a spa. That'll do for me. It's a short distance from the nearest town, too, so we could walk in of an evening for dinner.'

Rafferty was more than happy to fall in with Abra's choice. They talked cheerfully about their wedding for the rest of the evening And when Rafferty, pushing his luck even more, suggested they have an early night, 'To get in practise for the honeymoon,' as he jokingly told her, Abra raced off, shouting over her shoulder that if he could catch her, he could have his wicked way with her. Rafferty grinned and set off in pursuit.

The next morning, Rafferty woke with the gnawing conviction that there was something he’d missed on the investigation, some vital pointer to guilt. In vain, he searched his memory, but all his prodding produced nothing. He flung the bedclothes back and got up. He prowled restlessly around the bedroom, muttering under his breath until his pacing disturbed Abra.

‘What’s the matter with you, Joe?’ she mumbled, still half-asleep. ‘Got ants in your pants?’

‘In my brain, rather. Immediately I woke up, my mind started agitating that I’ve made a hash of something on this murder case.’

‘No change there, then.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, my little turtle dove.’

‘Quit agitating and come back to bed. I thought we could practise honeymoons again.’

Rafferty immediately stopped in his tracks, grinned and dived into the bed, pinning Abra down and kissing her soundly.

She struggled out from under. ‘Let a girl have some air. God, Mr Rafferty, but you don’t need any practise. What say you fetch your bride-to-be a nice cup of tea instead?’

‘On your bike, Abracadabra. We’re going for a ride.’

Abra squealed. Tea presumably forgotten, she flung her arms around him and wrestled with him until she sat, on top, crowing. ‘Get out of that,’ she said.

‘Not bloody likely. I love it when you’re masterful. Ooh, Abra,’ he cried, mock-falsetto. ‘Do that again. I like it.’

‘Idiot.’

Late for work, Rafferty was relieved to see that Superintendent Bradley’s car parking space was empty. Perhaps the super had got lucky this morning, as well? He shuddered at the thought and the pictures his fertile imagination conjured up. Definitely not suitable for a man who had breakfasted on nothing but love.

The mug of tea Llewellyn fetched first thing every morning was cold with a disgusting skin on it. Rafferty flung a pound coin over to the desk in the corner with the plea, ‘Be a good minion, Daff and fetch me a fresh cup, there’s a good lad. Abra and I’ve been practising honeymoons this morning and I’m parched.’

Apparently, the thought of
his
love life had a similar effect on Llewellyn as Superintendent Bradley’s had on Rafferty, for the Welshman shuddered. ‘Too much information.’

‘Get the tea then or I’ll fill you in on all the gory details.’

‘And ‘ll fill Abra in on the filling-in.’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘No. I wouldn’t. One of us ought to be a gentleman. And it’s not likely to be you. I’ll get that tea.’

Left alone, Rafferty ruminated on his earlier thoughts about the murder case. Was it something someone had said during the course of the interviews that was niggling him? He didn’t know. And the more he tried to pummel his brain into submission, the more it resisted.

When Llewellyn returned with the tea, they went through all the statements and discussed every personality right from the beginning of the case. But nothing struck either of them.

It was only when they’d got to the end of this mammoth task that Rafferty began to get another idea. It was the merest glimmer of one and might come to nothing, but he thought he knew just the person most likely to have information to help the glimmer grow: Mrs Emily Parker, the woman who was forever in and out of the houses of her neighbours and, like Ma, knew more about each of them than they knew themselves. If anyone could tell him what he wanted to know, she could.