Kith and Kill (18 page)

Back at the police station, they divided the statements up and started work. Silence reigned. Then Rafferty broke it. ‘I forgot to ask you. What did you find out about Adam's gambling debts? How much did they amount to?’

‘Three thousand, three hundred pounds. I've written a report. It's in your In Tray.’

Rafferty ignored this sly reference to the teetering piles requiring his attention. ‘And what did he earn?’

‘Forty thousand a year. But he spent that and more. His mortgage costs must be pretty high as he lives in Chelsea. He has a large apartment in a mansion block according to the housekeeper.’

‘Location. Location. Location, hey? Only the best for our Adam.’

‘I had the team speak to the neighbours and according to them, he seems to entertain a lot and uses upmarket caterers as if they cost nothing.’

‘Mmm. Living above his income and expecting grannie to bail him out again. Perhaps this time grannie refused. His gambling debts are still outstanding?’

‘Oh yes. And have been for the last two months.’

Rafferty whistled. ‘Must have tried touching grannie for them and got the bum's rush. What about Penelope Chambers’ lover-boy? Have we managed to find out much about him?’

‘Yes. Again, there's a report in your In Tray.’

Rafferty's wave of the hand dismissed his bulging In Tray. ‘Just tell me.’

‘I set DC Hanks on it. The gentleman's name is Harry Fowler. He owes the bank thirty-five thousand pounds. They're threatening to foreclose.’ Llewellyn paused, then added, ‘I also found out he has a wife. A wife whom he apparently adores and of whom Mrs Penelope Chambers seemed unaware.’

‘Seemed?’

‘Yes. I gather she has now learned of the lady's existence.’

‘When did that happen? Before or after the murder?’

‘After.’

‘Ouch. Bit much if you'd murdered your mother for your lover's sake and then find you're only ever going to be the mistress. She's not really mistress material.’

‘No.’

‘Hope we don't have another murder. Of the boyfriend this time. Does he live in Elmhurst?’

Llewellyn confirmed it and supplied the address.

‘Sounds like he's a gentleman worth a visit. Put Mary Carmody on to it.’ Rafferty took a large gulp of his now cooling tea. ‘Get her to tackle him at his place of work if he's still got one. Tell her to use her womanly wiles to winkle out what she can about his relationship with Penelope Chambers.’

‘Womanly wiles? I think you'll find there was a memorandum about ordering staff to use such tactics several years ago. Perhaps it's at the bottom of your In Tray?’ Rafferty grimaced and Llewellyn went on. ‘It was after the Met used a honey trap on Colin Stagg and it backfired in court.’

Rafferty sighed and in frustration, scrunched up the statement he was reading. ‘Not much point in having attractive women on the staff if you can't make use of their assets,’ he complained. ‘Might as well send Bill Beard to see him. God knows he goes in for enough affectionate endearments. I certainly get more than my fair share of “me duck's” and “me dear's” from him, anyway. Maybe Beard could endear him into submission?’

Llewellyn gave a brief smile. ‘I think we can rely on Mary Carmody to use her discretion, sir.’

Rafferty brightened. ‘That's true. She's not lacking in judgement, I'll give her that. Okay, unofficial womanly wiles it is. Good enough for me. Just don't tell the superintendent.’

‘When do I ever?’

It was true that Llewellyn was remarkably close-mouthed – something for which Rafferty had often been grateful. ‘You're a good lad, Dafyd. Haven't I always said it?’

‘No. Actually.’

Unabashed, Rafferty said, ‘Well, I'm saying it now. Consider yourself commended.’

Yet another
day had come round with no suspect apprehended. Rafferty decided to start the day with a team briefing to get them all fired up rather than stagnating. He got Llewellyn to put the word round, finished his second cup of tea and made his way to the Incident Room.

The chatter died down as he walked from the door to the front of the room. He counted faces, made sure everyone was there, before he began.

‘Well. We seem to be at an impasse. Seven suspects. No clues – beyond the circumstantial – equals an unhappy superintendent. And an unhappy superintendent means everyone else is on the anti-depressants. Anyone got any ideas how we proceed? I'll take all reasonable suggestions. Even rude ones.’ He stood and waited, then a tentative hand went up. He was surprised that it should be attached to Timothy Smales's body. ‘Yes, Tim? What's on your mind?’

Timothy Smales's fresh face blushed crimson. ‘I need to be excused, sir.’

Rafferty sighed. ‘What's wrong with going to the toilet
before
you come into the Incident Room? Go on, then. Hurry up.’

Smales blushed again. ‘No, Sir. I didn't mean I needed a sla–‘ Smales blush deepened to scarlet. ‘What I meant was that I need to be excused. I think I did something foolish.’

‘Only
think
? Don't you know?’

‘Yes sir. I suppose so.’ Smales tried to slip lower in his chair as the rest of the team stared at him.

Rafferty forced himself to bite back his irritation. He supposed he'd been young and gormless once, though he couldn't remember being quite as raw as young Timothy Smales. In a gentler tone, he asked, ‘So what have you done? Or not done?’

‘I forgot to go back and speak to one of the neighbours who was out when I first called during the house-to-house.’

‘Well all right, lad. We've all done it. To err is human and all that crap. I think I have sufficient of the Divine to forgive. No harm done. You can go back today.’

‘That's just it, sir. I can't. She's moved. And I don't know where she's moved to.’ Smales blushed for the third time. ‘I just thought I ought to mention it. Sir.’

‘Very commendable. So that'll be your first task for today, won't it? To track her down. The neighbours will surely have an idea where she's gone, even if they only know which county she's moved to. If you get no joy there, come and see me and we'll try other avenues.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Rafferty looked round at the rest of the team, slouched or sitting erect and every stance in between. ‘Anyone else got a confession to make?’

Everyone looked covertly at everyone else. But no one spoke until Bill Beard, the older constable who was permanently on desk duty and who had sauntered into the room clutching an envelope while Rafferty was in the middle of being Divine, said, ‘I have.’

Rafferty smiled. ‘Go on then, Bill. Surprise me.’

‘I confess I've forgotten to ring the engineer to get the drinks machine fixed.’

A communal groan went around the room.

‘He's not likely to come now till tomorrow or the next day.’

‘No great sin. Three Hail Mary's should about cover it. We've always got the canteen.’ He took in what was in Bill's hand and the fact that he was wearing protective gloves. He thought he recognized the envelope and the style of writing. ‘Is that for me?’

Bill nodded. ‘Looks like another one of them anonymous letters, me duck. Thought you'd want to share it with the class.’

Rafferty reached out a hand and took the envelope gingerly by the edges. ‘Anyone got a knife?’ he asked.

To make up for his previous sin of omission, Smales produced a Swiss army penknife, to sniggers from his colleagues.

‘Hey, Smalesy, you got a yen to dress up like one of them Swiss Guards, then? All poncey, like? You'd look lovely in those odd outfits. The colours are definitely you.’

‘Not with those spindly legs he wouldn't.’

‘How do you know he's got spindly legs?’

‘That's my business.’

A roar went up.

Rafferty left them to get on with it while he slit the envelope and eased the letter out. He laid it flat on the side table and stared at it, ignoring the shouts of ‘What's it say, Sir?’ that came from the bolder souls. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and found an evidence bag into which he put the letter. Found another for the envelope.

‘It says, and I quote: “Missed Nosy Nora, didn't you? Never away from her window, that one, even on the day she was moving house. Wonder if she saw Adam Chapman sneak his boyfriend into the house on the night the old lady died? Adam often stayed over, dancing attendance on that Sophia. But he missed the comforts of home. Often used to sneak his boyfriend into the house after the old lady had gone to bed. You want to check it out.” It's signed “A Friend of Justice.” Just like the first letter. Now you know as much as me. So Smales. Looks like you now have a pretty important task on your hands. Think you're up to it?’

‘Yes sir. No sir. I don't know, sir. But I'll do my best, sir. To find her, I mean, this Nosy Nora.’

‘Good lad. And who wants to find Adam's boyfriend?

A sea of hands went up.

‘You can't all want to visit the bog!’ Rafferty joked. ‘Okay, Hanks. You're it. The other members of the family are likely to know the identity of this boyfriend. Try them first before you try the neighbours. Save the family's blushes and all that.’ He handed the two protective bags to Bill Beard, with the request that he make sure they got to the lab. ‘Probably a waste of time, like with the first letter, but you never know. Matey-boy might have got careless.’

‘What am I? The bleedin’ postman?’ Bill grumbled. But he took the envelope and ambled back out of the room, taking his own sweet time.

‘Right,’ said Rafferty. ‘Where were we before all the excitement?’ He got on with the briefing, encouraging, praising, applying the boot up assorted arses and generally bringing the team up-to-date with every strand of the case. He handed out the routine duties. Then he went to the canteen in search of tea. All that talking had made him thirsty.

It was an hour later when an excited Timothy Smales caught up with him.

‘I've found her, Sir. Nosey Nora. She's not called Nora at all, but Lucinda. Lucinda Cecille Palmer-Watkins.’

‘Bloody hell. That's a mouthful. And where is she, this Lucinda blah di blah?’

‘Newcastle, sir.’

‘Go an address? Phone number?’

‘An address, Sir. I doubt she's got her phone line sorted yet. And the neighbours didn't know her mobile number. Actually, they didn't think she had one. She's quite an old lady. In her seventies.’

Rafferty, increasingly sensitive since hitting forty his last but one birthday, about his own approaching dotage, said, ‘Seventy's not old, these days. I know lots of very sprightly seventy somethings. Let's call her a woman of mature years and leave it at that. No ageism, no sexism, no racism. No isms of any sort in our wonderful modern police service. And quite right, too.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘’I want you to go up there. Take the train.’ He didn't want Smales driving all that way. He'd only just passed his test. ‘Question her. You know what to ask.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. For trusting me to do it, I mean.’

‘Gotta spread your wings sometime. Off you go and check the train times.’

He forgot about Smales once he'd left the office. He had other things to think about. Before Smales had burst in with his good news, he'd just come off the phone. The killer hadn't rested on his or her laurels. They'd got ambitious. Or careful. Whatever their reason, Dahlia Sullivan lay dead in her flat. Lambasted a couple of times about the head. Her husband had found her when he had brought in the morning tea. Or so he had said. He'd have thought Freddie Sullivan would be an early bird, given his job, but it was now after ten. So what had taken him so long to report Dahlia's death?

Rafferty rounded up Llewellyn on his way out and told him the latest.

‘Do you think Mr Sullivan killed his wife?’ Llewellyn asked.

‘Don't know. But they were both in bed, with the front door locked. Maybe he did do it. Or maybe, given the circs, he's just scared we'll think so. Either way, we need to find out who else had a key to their flat. I'd have thought Sophia Egerton would have had one, though I don't recall seeing a separate key after we went through her possessions. Better check that out, Daff. And I would have thought Dahlia Sullivan herself would leave a spare key to the flat at the main house. We need to find out if she did and if it's missing. Or been missing for a time and then returned.’

It was raining steadily. By the time they reached the car they were thoroughly damp. It was the sort of rain that, although light, seemed to seep insidiously down collars and into shoes, making for an uncomfortable journey to the Egerton home.

As Rafferty had guessed, Freddie Sullivan had chosen not to leave his wife alone. After he had let them into their flat above what must once have been the stables in the grounds of the Egerton home, he made for what was clearly the couple's bedroom. But Rafferty steered him towards the open living room door and settled him on the settee.

After taking a brief look at the scene, which confirmed Freddie's description, Rafferty sat down in the living room and sent Llewellyn to make tea and ring Dr Dally and the team.

‘I don't want tea. I'd only spew it up.’ Freddie raised a face on which the evidence of recent tear stains was evident, and asked, ‘Who'd want to do that to my Dahlia? Never hurt a soul, she didn't. What am I to do now, without her?’