Death Dues (7 page)

His Ma shook her head. ‘No. But sometimes I was so desperate that I was tempted. But I’d heard how violent Forbes, father and son and his collectors could be if you couldn’t pay. We did without instead. Better, I thought, to do that than live in fear of the knock on the door.’

Though there had been a fair amount of that, too, as Rafferty remembered. Plenty of times they’d had to keep quiet and hide out of sight of the windows when the tally man called round for his money. Rafferty had always expected Dave, the tallyman, to slip his fingers through the letterbox, pull out the door key that was suspended on string behind the door and let himself in to catch them all hiding behind the furniture, but he never did.

‘The old man’s retired now. His son has the complete running of the business. He’s a real chip off the old block. Or so I hear.’

Ma made some more tea and said as she sat down again, ‘And now that I’ve sorted out your suspects for you, tell me your own news. Have you and Abra settled on a wedding date yet?’

‘We thought of May.’

‘May? You can’t get married in May. It’s the unluckiest month of the year to wed. “Marry in May and you’ll rue the day”. Surely you know that?’

Bemused, Rafferty shook his head. It was the first he’d heard of such a saying. Keen to transfer blame, he said, ‘It was Abra’s idea.’

Ma tutted. ‘What does she know at her age? June’s much the better month. You tell her from me. You want to talk her out of May, son. No point in starting married life with the fates against you. Asking for trouble.’

As Rafferty had already had one taste of what tempting the fates could do that day, he wasn’t inclined to argue. Disgruntled that the one thing they’d managed to agree on — the month of their wedding — now looked kicked into touch, Rafferty, after he left his Ma’s house, drove to the Chinese takeaway to pick up the food he’d rang through an order for earlier, his Ma’s colourful and highly prejudiced descriptions of most of the main suspects chasing each other round in his head. Wait till he told Llewellyn.

There again, it was probably better if he kept shtoom about his source of all the scandal. Llewellyn was a by-the-book sort of man. He’d be sure to consider consulting his Ma, the neighbourhood Oracle on all things to do with people, as very unprofessional.

Chapter Five

It was gone ten by the time Rafferty left his Ma’s house. He popped into his local Chinese takeaway.

As he waited for his order, he ruminated on the day’s developments. Was Ma’s description of the suspects they so far had, accurate? Ma wasn’t beyond exaggeration to improve a tale. Had Jaws Harrison gone into the alley for the reason he had surmised — that of gaining access to the homes of the debtors who left front door knocks unanswered? Or had he had another reason for sneaking around the back alley?

The weather was still cold and damp and though the rain had eased off markedly, the wind had turned even more blustery with evening. Rafferty was glad to get back in the car and head home to Abra.

When he reached the flat, he took off his still damp raincoat and hung it in the hall above the radiator, hoping it would be dry by morning. He paused for a few seconds to admire the newly-decorated hallway; he’d done a good job, even if he said so himself. Taupe walls with white woodwork. It still looked smart, though, he supposed, if Abra was still keen on buying a house as she’d said that morning, it would be back to square one on the decorating front. He breathed in on a sigh, opened the living room door and said hello to Abra.

He found her once again deep in her piles of Bride and Wedding magazines. What extravagance was she planning now? he wondered as he took in her bent head. The Philharmonic Orchestra for the reception? A vintage Rolls Royce to ferry her to the ceremony? He wished he knew how to get her down off her rose pink cloud of romance. It seemed to be taking her over.

Abra looked up briefly from her study of diamond-studded tiaras. ‘Hi Joe,’ she said. ‘You're late. Had a good day?’

'Not so's you'd notice. I've a murder case to solve on top of the muggings. Bloke called Jaws Harrison was killed. A collector for a local loan shark.'

Abra's lips turned down. 'I suppose that means you're going to be late every night for weeks. When are we supposed to be getting on with planning our wedding?'

Oh God, thought Rafferty. Not that again. Can't I have some peace? 'It's my job, sweetheart,' he said peaceably. 'I've no choice. And my income will help pay for the wedding you've set your heart on.'

'Will it, though? When you never seem to have time to discuss it. I seem to be the only one interested in our wedding.'

'Now that's not true. You know it's not. Please don't start. Not tonight. I'm bushed. I'll go and dish up.'

Abra followed him into the kitchen, seemingly determined to carry on the wedding conversation. He told her what his Ma had said about a May wedding, thinking to get all of the bad news out of the way in one go; that way, maybe he could spend what remained of the evening in peace. ‘She didn’t think much of the idea, sweetheart. Said something about marrying in May and rueing the day.’

‘Superstitious nonsense,’ was Abra’s forthright response. She seemed to be on a roll with her dissatisfaction with the Rafferty family. ‘I seem to recall something similar about marrying on a Saturday, though that doesn’t stop thousands getting married on that day every year.’

‘Maybe. Though it would go a long way to explaining the divorce statistics.’

‘Not necessarily. People have been getting married on a Saturday for generations. The only thing that goes a long way to explaining the divorce statistics is the fact that so many people nowadays don’t stick at their marriages.’ She smiled suddenly and Rafferty knew he’d been let off the May hook. ‘But this is the only one I want.’

‘It’s the only one I want, too,’ Rafferty said. It was true enough. He certainly hadn’t wanted his first marriage to Angie, but an unexpected pregnancy had rather hastened things along on the marital front with that one. Just his luck she’d lost the baby after the wedding rather than before. Angie was dead now, leaving him with a burden of guilt at her passing.

But he’d been a widower long enough, as Ma kept reminding him. And this time he was marrying for the right reasons; he knew that, in spite of all this silliness they were currently going through over the wedding arrangements. ‘Let’s make it June, Abra, for the sake of peace. You know Ma will have plenty to say at the merest hint of a squabble between us if we stick to a May wedding. She’ll tell us we tempted the fates.’

‘Go on then. May, June. What does it matter?' she said crossly. 'I just want to get the important things settled, so I’ll bow to your Ma’s superstitious beliefs on that one. June it is. But you needn’t think your mother is going to influence all our decisions about the wedding. It’s our day, not hers.’

‘Indeed it is. And so I’ll tell her if she comes up with any more superstitions or old wives’ tales.’

‘Though it’s no good settling on the date unless we also settle on the place.’

Rafferty grinned. ‘Ma’s got firm opinions on that and all. But you know that. She has her heart set on Father Kelly marrying us in St Boniface.’

‘I rather fancied one of the local stately homes. But I’m going to have to let you off the hook on that one, too. I rang all the nearest ones today. Not a hope. They’re very popular so are booked up months ahead. So, given that I haven’t got that option, I can agree to St Boniface as long as I’m not expected to learn a lot of religious claptrap in the weeks leading up to the wedding.’

Abra, unlike Rafferty, wasn’t a Catholic. Not even a lapsed one. So Rafferty, suspecting the opposite, crossed his fingers behind his back as he told her, ‘I think you’ll find Father Kelly can be an obliging sort. And more than understanding.’ With all his vices, he had to be. ‘You were a bit out of it at the time, but he came up trumps when you lost little Joey early and insisted you wanted him christened.’ Abra had miscarried their first child some months before in the early stages of pregnancy. ‘If it hadn’t been for him the christening you’d set your heart on wouldn’t have happened.’

‘I know that. I’m not stupid, Joe.’

‘OK. So that’s two of the majors sorted. Now for the guest list.’ Two out of three things going his way wasn’t bad for one evening, Rafferty mused, particularly given the mood Abra had worked herself into by the time he arrived home. Perhaps he was pushing his luck in going for the hat trick?

And so it proved. Abra dug her heels in over the invitees.

‘Why on earth do you want all these people to attend?’ Rafferty asked as he scanned the list of names. ‘I’ve never met most of them.’

‘That’s because you spend so much of your time at work,’ Abra pointed out. ‘Besides, you’ve been married before. I haven’t. I bet your first wife insisted on a big wedding and got her own way.’

As this was true, Rafferty didn’t have much of an argument. It was no good lying to Abra. She had a way of knowing when he wasn’t telling the truth. She was like his Ma in that respect. Instead, he tried a more sneaky tactic. ‘I wanted our marriage to be a more intimate occasion,’ he began. ‘Small and exclusive.’ It sounded horribly pretentious put like that, but he didn’t know how else to express what seemed to be his fast fading hopes of saving some money on the nuptials.

‘What’s the point of our big day being so small and insignificant? I want to feel married with the good wishes of everyone I know. I want it to be a real celebration of our love.’

Sneaky, bringing emotions into it when he was trying to concentrate on practicalities. But he was sensible enough to recognise that this was one argument he wasn’t going to win, so he gave in gracefully. ‘Did you manage to get anything else sorted today?’

Abra nodded. ‘I beat the caterer’s price down and I found a photographer a friend used for her wedding who did a great job for less than the others quoted.’ She pulled a face. ‘Though he wouldn’t commit to a firm booking. Said he was provisionally booked throughout next summer.’

Rafferty, still hoping to be able to put aside the ‘wedding’ conversation for what remained of the evening, picked up the plates and said, ‘Don’t worry Abracadabra. We’ll find someone. It’s early days yet. I’ll bring the food through if you get the cutlery and do the honours on the drinks front.’

‘Changing the subject, Joe? There’s still loads more to sort out.’

‘Not at all. Just feeding the inner man. The groom can wait awhile.’

‘OK. I can take a hint. We’ll leave any more decisions till later in the week. I’ll get those drinks.’

Rafferty smiled to himself as he made for the living room, pleased the trials of wedding arrangements would take a back seat for the rest of  the night.

Rafferty had several times had dealings with Malcolm Forbes. He’d been warned on a couple of occasions about intimidating debtors who failed to pay their debts on time. The debtors, of course, always refused to press charges when the neighbours called the police, for fear that worse would follow. With the astronomical interest rates that Forbes charged, Rafferty was amazed that any of his clients managed to keep up their payments.

The weather had changed for the better; gone was the heavy rain and wind of yesterday. The pawnshop behind which Forbes operated his loan company was in Elmhurst High Street sandwiched between a charity shop and the independent butchers that Ma patronised. It looked reasonably smart with the morning sun glinting off its black paintwork and the three golden coloured balls that were the pawnbrokers’ trademark.

‘A grubby business, pawn broking,’ Rafferty remarked as they crossed the road to the shop, having parked down a side street.

‘It’s not as grubby as it once was,’ Llewellyn commented. ‘I understand a lot of them are moving upmarket and trying to appeal to the cash-poor middle classes. Quite successfully I believe.’

‘Me, I’ve always wondered about the three balls. Why do all pawnbrokers use them? Why not two balls? Or none at all?’ Rafferty mused as he gazed in the window. The display was full of watches and jewellery; mostly cheap stuff, though one or two of the engagement rings appeared more expensive as if they had been bought in happier times when money wasn’t a problem.

Needless to say, Llewellyn had an answer for his musing.

‘They’re a relic from fifteenth century Florence when the Medici family of bankers had the image as their coat of arms. Did you know that pawn broking goes back three thousand years to the Chinese?’

Rafferty didn’t. And to forestall the longer lecture that he sensed was about to be delivered, he opened the door to the shop. A bell attached to the frame rang out a loud warning as Rafferty entered. The single member of staff sat caged behind a protective grille. His assessing glance showed he had got their measure, but Rafferty brought out his warrant card just the same. He introduced himself and Llewellyn and asked, ‘Is Mr Forbes in? We’d like a word.’

The assistant, a thin man of around fifty, with a long, hang-dog face, abandoned the racing pages of his newspaper, hopped down from his stool and said, ‘I’ll just see if he’s available.’ He knocked on a door at the back of the shop and disappeared. He came back in thirty seconds and opened up a door in the grille for them to pass through.

Malcolm Forbes was sitting behind a shabby desk that looked as if it might have formed part of his early stock; the low-key nature of the furnishings, nothing over the top or showy to fuel the punters’ resentment, gave out the message that he was running a service that barely ticked over. A much-needed service for those down on their luck rather than a profiteering racket with a serial usurer at its head.

‘Ah, Inspector Rafferty. I learned from the officer you sent to see me yesterday that you were in charge of the murder investigation. John Harrison’s a sad loss.’ This was said with a suitably mournful demeanour. Then, mock mourning over, it was business as usual as he asked, ‘How’s the case going? Are you anywhere near catching the scum who killed him?’

‘The investigation is progressing as expected, Mr Forbes,’ Rafferty told him, keeping his feelings in check. He’d never liked Forbes. The man was an overbearing bully. It went against the grain to have to be polite to him. ‘All the residents of the street adjoining the alley where he was found have been questioned and will be so again.’