CHAPTER SIX

Rafferty found Mrs ffinch-Robinson waiting for him when he got back to the station. She wore an air of vindicated self-righteousness — everything she had said having proved true — and seemed to have taken up occupation of his visitor's chair as though she intended a lengthy stay.

Rafferty, hungry and looking forward to breaking his post mortem fast, gave a long-suffering sigh. Unfortunately, she was just the sort of person he found it most difficult to deal with; not only serious-minded and unlikely to appreciate his jokes, but also self-assured, strong-willed and convinced she knew best. But as his conscience didn't fail to remind him that he had a lot to thank her for, he did his best to look pleased to see her.

As soon as he sat down, she began to criticize, the cut-glass tones and authoritative magistrate's manner combining to make him feel as though he was some ne'er-do-well she was lecturing from the Bench. As, in his youth, he hadn't exactly been the best-behaved boy on the block, the analogy didn't make him feel any easier.

'I hope, Inspector, that you've reprimanded that young officer as I suggested.'

To Rafferty, her suggestion had sounded more like a command, but, as she didn't pause long enough to give him a chance to confirm he'd obeyed her, he was saved the indignity of a reply.

'It's officers of his type who create a barrier between police and public. I've often said that. I well recall another occasion when—'

With difficulty, Rafferty tuned her out. He remembered how her lips had thinned when she had entered his office the previous evening and taken in his unruly auburn hair, his limp brown suit and his inadequately cleaned black shoes and knew that any attempt to defend Lilley would be a waste of breath. He doubted she had any interest in excuses, be they his own or anyone else's.

Vowing to make sure to tell the desk staff that he was out — permanently, should she decide to make visits to the police station a regular event, he sat back and, as far as he was able, let her crisp tones float over his head. He was becoming convinced she intended to haunt him.

Her voice rose, as if she suspected he had stopped listening, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he tuned in again and learned she would be returning to Burleigh the next day.

'That's why I felt I had to come in,' she explained. 'I imagine, now that you have found the body, you'll want to go through my statement again.' Mrs ffinch-Robinson didn't wait for his agreement to this any more than she had for his confirmation that he had chastised Lilley and just proceeded to go over, not only her statement, but her view of the murder, what she had deduced, and her recommendations as to how he should proceed, apparently of the opinion he'd need all the help he could get.

Maybe she's right at that, Rafferty thought grimly and he attempted to butt in, but she obviously had huge experience at quelling mutinous males be they felons or middle-ranking police officers and his attempt to board the debate dinghy was ruthlessly crushed.

'Obviously, Smith's body must have been left in the woods during darkness on both occasions,' she told him. 'Even in winter there are too many people about during daylight hours. That being the case, you'll certainly want to have a word with the local poachers. I've spoken to my opposite numbers on the Bench in Elmhurst and they've supplied me with the details of those who come up before them most often.' She rustled in a large, business-like leather handbag and produced her list, which she placed under his nose.

'If one or two of them were about their usual nocturnal activities they may have seen something of that car I heard in the lane before I found the body. If you remember, I told you it never passed me and next I heard an engine revving and a car drove off and a few moments later I found the body. The two things must be connected. And another thing...'

Worn down by her determined vigour, Rafferty reflected weakly that the Age of Empire might have died, but its natural inheritors were still alive and kicking. No longer, like their forbears, in a position to boss half the world, latter-day memsahibs had simply lowered their sights to Mother England's more limited shores. Magistrate's Benches, Council Committees, and Police Authorities up and down the country were littered with clones of Mrs ffinch-Robinson, dispensing justice, Council Tax spending allocations and strongly-worded directives about where the police force was going wrong.

In many ways he admired such women. If only they weren't so exhausting to the rest of us, he wryly mused. Still, he shouldn't complain, he reminded himself again. Her information at least helped them to pinpoint the time of death more accurately, and if, as seemed likely, a ten-year-old vengeance had finally caught up with Maurice Smith, this information could be vital.

When he'd finally convinced Mrs ffinch-Robinson that he had taken her advice to heart and that she could go home with a clear conscious, he walked along to the canteen. After collecting tea and the spicy and delicious, if now, cold, sausage rolls, that Opal, the cook, made to her own recipe, he rounded up the officers he had earlier despatched on special duties and brought the lot back to this office.

'Right,' he said. 'You first, Andrews. 'What did you find out about the Bullocks' and Smith's visit to them?'

Andrews pulled a face. 'Not a lot. Couldn't get anybody to confirm or deny what time Smith arrived and left the Bullocks' place on Wednesday. And if he was at the flats at all on Thursday evening I couldn't find anyone who'd seen him. Course it was bitter weather both nights, so everyone would have been indoors. I checked in the pub on the corner and both the Bullocks were in there on the Thursday night. The son, Kevin, from about seven and Bullock himself from about nine-thirty, though, according to the landlord, it was unusual for Bullock senior to arrive so late.'

'Mm. Interesting — especially when you consider I was given the impression that they went to the pub together.

'Do you want me to go back and question them further?'

'No. I'll do that. I'd like to hear what Jes Bullock has to say for himself. He's not the sort to be late for his pint, not unless he has something important on. I'll give him a day or so to stew, first, though. Let him get nicely softened up.' Rafferty paused and, turning to Llewellyn, he changed the subject. 'Has the rest of the paperwork arrived from Burleigh yet?'

Llewellyn picked up the phone. 'I'll check.'

'What about you and Liz?' Rafferty asked Lilley, as Llewellyn spoke quietly into the phone. 'Manage to find out anything new?'

Lilley nodded. 'We spoke with Smith's neighbours as you told us, guv,' Lilley reported. 'You wanted to know if anyone had been hanging around recently. Well, someone had. Several someone’s, in fact. This little old lady, by the name of Miss Primrose Partington, who lives on the corner of the next street, to Smith's, says that a stranger's car was parked outside her house from Wednesday morning to Thursday evening, when it left suddenly. She's not seen it since. Said she doubted she could recognise them again, but she did say they were females, three of them, and that they seemed to be taking turns at some sort of guard duty. All they did was sit there, though, at least that was all they were doing each time she looked. I checked, and from where they were parked they'd have had a good view of both the front and back of Smith's home. They could have seen anyone entering or leaving from either the front door or the fire escape.'

'Does she know the exact time this car left?'

'Afraid not. But it was gone when she looked out at ten o'clock before going to bed.'

'I suppose it's too much to hope that she took the registration number?'

Lizzie Green answered. 'Wrong angle. But she recognised the make —-an old Zephyr. Said her uncle used to have the same car.'

'You've checked they're not our own officers on surveillance for some drugs bust?'

Lilley nodded. 'The station knows nothing about them. It's odd though, don't you think, guv, that the car should have left the spot on the Thursday evening; the night Smith died, yet before his identity was disclosed. They've not been back since, though they'd not moved before that. It's almost as if they'd been watching him for some reason and, knowing he was dead, called a halt.'

Knowing he was dead – Rafferty repeated Lilley's words silently to himself as he recalled the threat contained in the 'outing' letter. Who would have known he was dead but his killer or killers, or the person or persons who were responsible for moving his body?

Llewellyn interrupted his train of thought to advise that the Burleigh papers had arrived. Constable Beard was bringing them up.

Rafferty nodded and turned back to Lilley. 'You said Miss Partington wasn't able to give you a description of these women, but, surely, she must have noted something to know there were three of them.

Lilley pulled a face. 'Afraid not, guv. She said it was more impressions — of hairstyles and so on rather than individual features that made her believe there were three of them'

'So, it could just as easily have been one woman with three different hairstyles,' Rafferty muttered.

Liz Green seemed to find it necessary to make excuses for the old lady. 'She has got a long front garden, sir. It's got a lot of bushes in it, so it would have been difficult for her to see plainly. And she doesn't go out as she can't walk far.' With a toss of her dark curls, she added provocatively, 'She did say that if it had been men rather than women parked there she would have phoned us without question.'

Rafferty snorted. 'Sure to be up to no good, men. Not like the girls — they're made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Everyone knows that.' He took a huge bite of his sausage roll before continuing. 'What about the gate? Manage to find out when it was damaged?'

Liz Green told him, 'Several of Mrs Penny's neighbours seem to think it can't have happened before Thursday. A wind got up on both that night and the Wednesday night but they only heard the gate banging on the Thursday night. Complained it kept them awake. If it had done the same the previous night they'd have remembered.'

Rafferty nodded. 'Well done. Right. I want you two to go back to that street and keep knocking on doors till you get some more answers. The old lady can't be the only one to remember the car, seeing as it was parked there for the best part of two days. It's the sort of thing people notice; very territorial the human animal. Don't like strangers parking on their street. Seem to think they own it.'

He knew the station received plenty of complaints from irate householders on the subject. Many times, when he'd been in uniform and on desk duty, he'd had to bite his tongue to stop some sharp retort and explain politely that the driver had a perfect right to park his car where he liked as long as he wasn't on a yellow line or in some other restricted area. It was possible another of Smith's neighbours had been annoyed enough about the interloper to note down the number and to ask the police to tell the occupants to shift it. It was something of a long-shot, but worth checking.

Rafferty turned to Hanks. 'How did you get on? Did you manage to track down the current addresses of Smith's victims and their families?'

Hanks nodded. 'Of the four families, two have moved from Burleigh — the Walkers and the Masseys. The Walkers, the family of the young girl who killed herself, emigrated to Australia six years ago.'

'What? The whole family?' Hanks nodded again. 'Get onto our Aussie opposite numbers, will you? Ask them to check that none of the family was missing from home during the relevant period, though it seems unlikely. If you're intent on revenge you don't move to the other side of the world. What about the other families?'

'The Dennington father's dead; died of a heart attack shortly after Smith was released. The girl's two brothers are in the army in Cyprus.'

'Should be easy enough to check they were with their units. You can do that when you're finished here. What about the daughter?'

'The girl – Sally – is now twenty. She still lives with her mother in their old home in Burleigh.' Hanks consulted his notes. 'The Masseys moved to London eight years ago when Frank, the father, was released from prison after his attack on Smith. The daughter, Alice, is now eighteen. She was — is, an only child.'

Hanks cast a speculative glance at Rafferty as he laid his papers on the desk. 'I know you told me to be discreet, but it seemed a waste of time not to dig a little when their old neighbours were so chatty, so I thought—'

Rafferty nodded and gestured him to go on.

'I gather from their old neighbours that Massey had a breakdown and was still a mass of neuroses when they moved. One particular set of neighbours still keep in touch with Christmas cards and the like and told me the parents have since split up.

'As for the Figg family, they stayed in their old home — it's their business as well. They're scrap metal dealers, bit of a rough and ready crowd, well known at Burleigh nick, apparently. If anyone was going to kill Smith, they'd be the most likely ones to try it. From what I heard, you don't cross the Figg family; not if you've got any sense. The two eldest boys have put several people in hospital. And they don't just use their fists, a knife's their favourite weapon.'

Rafferty congratulated them all. 'You've done well. Keep it up and we might have this case over before Christmas. Is that your report, Hanks?'

Hanks nodded and picked up the sheaf of typed papers from the desk beside him and handed them over.

'What about the rest of you?' Rafferty asked. 'Where are your reports?'

A chorus of excuses followed this question and Rafferty held up his hands. 'All right, all right. Just don't forget to get them written up. When they're done, I'll get Sergeant Llewellyn here to check your spelling — you know how much he enjoys a good laugh.'

They grinned at this and filed out.

Llewellyn's lugubriousness was becoming as much a byword at the nick as his cautious driving, earning him the title of Dashing Daffy, the Tittering Taffy or 'DDT' for short, the short-form encompassing also his deadly way of dealing with the more pestilential form of policeman that hung round the canteen. This last trait had ensured the station wits took care to keep him in ignorance of his new name. But at least, the fact that they had given him a nickname indicated to Rafferty that the intellectual Welshman was starting to gain acceptance at the station. He was pleased to discover it.

Rafferty and Llewellyn settled down to read the rest of the reports that had accumulated in their absence from the station. Rafferty broke off when Constable Beard brought the papers from Burleigh, to ask him to fetch coffee, strong, black and plentiful, from the canteen. It was going to be a long night.

Rafferty finally called a halt at 10.00 p m. He was nearly home before he remembered his promise to Llewellyn. He'd have rung his Ma and asked her about accommodating Llewellyn's mother, but, even if he'd thought of it, he'd had no chance during the day and he knew his ma hated getting telephone calls late at night; she always expected disaster.

But a promise was a promise. She'd still be up, he knew, as she rarely went to bed before midnight. With a tired sigh, he turned the car and made for her home.

He opened the door with his key, shouting, 'It's only me,' as he shut the front door and opened the one to the living room.

His Ma was sitting in her armchair, staring into space, at her feet the box containing the Christmas decorations, and in her hand the baby Jesus from the manger scene she always set up in the corner.

He remembered most of the decorations from childhood; the paper bells and lanterns that hung from the ceiling, the cheap balls with the chips of colour missing that hung from the tree. They were all pretty tatty by now, but as they held years of memories in their every chip and tear, his Ma refused to throw them out. Every Christmas, when she dug them out, she'd smile and say the same thing, 'Do you remember—?'

Strangely, this time, she said nothing at all.'

Ma?' Rafferty finally gained her attention. 'What's the matter? You look a bit down.'

Kitty Rafferty sighed and told him, 'Sure and I've had some bad news, son. It's Gemma. She's pregnant.'

Rafferty stifled a groan of dismay. Gemma was his eldest niece, the daughter of his first sister, Maggie. Gemma was sixteen and looked even younger. He searched the mass of family photographs on the wall for the latest one of her; his Ma had so many of them all — angelic babies, grubby-faced toddlers, cheekily-grinning school-kids, serious at First Communion and Confirmation ceremonies.

He finally found the photo he was looking for; it could only have been taken a few months ago and, from the happy smile, had been before she had known she was pregnant. She had a dimple in the chin like him. Dimple in chin, devil within, his gran had always said. She'd certainly been a little devil when she was younger and was always the first to lead the rest into mischief. He supposed that was why she was his favourite.

Rafferty hunkered down beside his Ma's chair and gave her a hug. 'It's not the end of the world.' He paused and tried to cheer her up. 'You wait — in another few days you'll be looking forward to the birth and knitting like a demon. And you'll be the first great-grandma on the street. It's one in the eye for her next door, hey?'

Kitty Rafferty gave a watery smile. 'I suppose so.'

'So, when's it due?'

'She's only two months gone. That worried me, too. It's bad enough that she's pregnant, but today, when Maggie told me, she said Gemma's daddy was pushing for her to have an abortion. Just like a man, looking for a short-term solution and creating a long-term problem.'

Rafferty knew an abortion would upset his Ma even more than the pregnancy. Unlike him, she was a staunch Catholic, and although she had her little idiosyncrasies and didn't blindly follow the Vatican line on everything, abortion was a subject on which she felt very strongly.

'What about Gemma? What does she want?'

This time the smile was more definite. 'Apparently, she told her father she was going to make him a granddad whether he liked it or not.'

'That's our Gemma. And what about after? Will she keep it or have it adopted?'

'Adopted? My first great-grandchild?' Ma's voice was indignant. 'She'll not have it adopted, not if I've got anything to do with.' She got up and made for the adjoining kitchen, adding, in a firmer voice, 'It's early days yet for such decisions. Wait till the baby's in her arms and then let her see if she could let him go to strangers.'

He heard the kettle filled with water and plonked on the gas stove, her voice raised to be heard above the kitchen noises. 'It's not as if young Gemma has no one to turn to; she's got a large family. She'd never forgive herself if she gave the baby up; she'd always be wondering what he was like, whether the new parents were kind to him or whether he had been shunted aside by the arrival of a natural child. I knew a girl when I was young who gave her baby up. She never got over it. I don't want that to happen to Gemma.'

Rafferty propped himself against the kitchen door. 'What about the father?'

His ma sniffed. 'He's no more than a kid himself. Same age as Gemma. What sort of a father would he make?'

The kettle boiled and she made the tea, automatically she began buttering bread while she waited for the tea to brew. The scratch meal was soon ready and Rafferty carried it into the living room.

'So,' his Ma began. 'You never said. What brings you here so late?'

Rafferty told her.

The idea of the visit from Mrs Llewellyn seemed to cheer her up immensely. 'Of course, she'll come for Christmas,' she decided. Rafferty tried to dissuade her, but she was adamant. 'It'll give her a chance to meet all the family.'

'Are you sure that's a good idea?' Rafferty asked.

'And why wouldn't it be?' She bridled. 'Admittedly, Maureen's mum's likely to be a bit of a starchy-arse, her and her lah-di-dah notions, but I can always give her a jollop of something to loosen her up a bit.'

'That wasn't quite what— '

Ma waved him to silence. 'Dafyd's mum must take us as she finds us. If she turns her nose up, it's better for Maureen to know it now than after the wedding.' Her face softened, even her tight Christmas perm seemed to loosen a bit as she added, 'You must remember, Joseph, she's only got the one chick. She's entitled to give us all the onceover. She wants her boy to be happy, same as any mother would. Should I begrudge her the chance to make sure he's marrying the right girl?

‘Talking of weddings,' she went on, 'that reminds me. I've picked up a new suit that would fit you a treat. Come and have a look.'

Following her into the hall, Rafferty helped himself to the local paper. He glanced at its headines while she rummaged in the wardrobe. Not surprisingly, they were still leading with Smith's murder. Determinedly, he turned the page. A small paragraph caught his eye. ‘Wedding outfitters robbed’. It was certainly one way to cut the costs of the average wedding, he mused. He wondered if Llewellyn had considered it?

He glanced again at the paragraph as his Ma held up a smart grey suit of far better quality than the ones he usually bought.

'What do you think? Reckon it's about time you gave that tired brown suit a holiday.' She held the jacket out to him. 'Feel the quality of that. Lovely bit of cloth. Real bargain it was.'

Rafferty's gaze narrowed. Ma and her "bargains" were a by-word for trouble. 'Why are there no labels on it?' he demanded. 'Suit's got to be a bit iffy if it hasn't got any labels. So where did you get it? It says here in the paper that—'

Ma raised her eyes to the ceiling and complained, 'The man's offered a quality suit at a bargain price and he worries about a little thing like labels. I'll put a blessed label in if you're that fussy.'

'Not if it's bent gear. You know—'

'Bent? What kind of language is that? Slightly out of kilter it may be, but that's all. The man I got it from said he was doing a favour for a friend. Some poor devil of a tailor down on his luck, he said.'

'You mean an insurance fiddle? A put up job?'

'Sure and I didn't ask the man his private business. You know me, I've never been one to pry. Anyway, even if what you say is true, nobody's lost anything. Only the insurance company and as everybody knows they're the biggest bunch of crooks this side of prison bars, you couldn't really call it a crime at all. More an act of mercy. Like Robin Hood.'

'I doubt the force would agree with you, Ma,' he said as he followed her back to the living room. 'Perhaps you should come and defend me when I'm hauled in front of the Super for not only receiving stolen goods, but for wearing the blessed things. Get rid of it, Ma. Please. For all our sakes.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rafferty gave a low whistle as he pulled up in the short drive of Prosecutor Elizabeth Probyn's house on Saturday morning. 'She's spent a few bob here recently on security.' He grinned. 'Wonder who else she's managed to rub up the wrong way? One of those criminals she feels so impartial about, perhaps?'

The burglar alarm squatted like a square red carbuncle on the white-painted face of the house; the front door had a spyhole, and the ground floor windows all had dark green metal shutters that could be rolled down at night.

Although Rafferty had only once before, some five months previously, had occasion to visit the house, he knew none of these precautions had been in evidence then. He grinned again. He couldn't help it. Of course Llewellyn had to speak up for her.

'I think you misjudge her. She does her job well; but she does it within the limits of the law. If one were to listen solely to your opinion of her, one could be forgiven for thinking she wasn't successful. But she is — frequently. As for the security, I imagine she receives the usual threats when one of the more vindictive amongst the criminal fraternity gets sent down. Why make it easy for any who decide to carry out their threats?' He rang the bell.

Rafferty's lip curled. His sergeant was of as cool and impartial a turn of mind as Elizabeth Probyn and could be relied upon to stand up for her. Of course Llewellyn hadn't experienced the shouting matches that he had with her. Or rather, ruefully, he corrected himself — he had been the one to do the shouting. Typically, Elizabeth Probyn had responded in that cool manner of hers that always infuriated him even more.

Unlike several other Crown Prosecution Service lawyers with whom Rafferty had worked in the past, Elizabeth Probyn made no attempt to pretend she was there to help the police to nail villains. On the contrary, she insisted that the role of the prosecutor was an objective, impartial one; to lay before the court both the facts for the accused as well as those against. As she had crisply informed Rafferty on more than one occasion, the Prosecution Service was a representative, not of the police, but of the public, on whose behalf cases were brought. Winning or losing didn't come into it.

Rafferty had no patience with such legalese; it invariably rendered him incoherent with rage. Older and wiser after their first few confrontations, he had with difficulty learned to control his feelings when they met and, while simmering underneath, on top he was all unnatural politeness like a reluctant dancing partner.

The door was eventually answered by a dumpy middle-aged woman in a dingy grey overall, who through lips that held a dangling cigarette, told them she was Mrs Chadden, and that she "did" for the prosecutor. She was new, too, Rafferty realised. He remembered the previous cleaner had been thin, elderly, and tending to sniffiness when Rafferty had introduced himself. He had concluded that, out of the courtroom at least, Elizabeth Probyn dropped a large chunk of her prized impartiality. No doubt the other cleaner had retired.

They were expected and Mrs Chadden let them in with all the chatty enthusiasm of one whose main occupation was finding excuses to stop work. The state of the kitchen confirmed that she had little trouble in finding such excuses. It was barely superficially clean. It was obvious that as a "treasure" she had limited worth. Rafferty was surprised Elizabeth Probyn didn't get rid of her and hire a more competent model.

'Madam said she'd been delayed and I was to look after you,' she told them when her first rapid flow of chat was finally used up. 'I don't normally work weekends, but she rang and asked me to come in special this morning.' She left them in no doubt that she regarded this as a major concession.

'I suppose you want tea?' Not pausing for their response, she filled the electric kettle and plonked it down on its base on the worktop and switched on, before reaching into a cupboard for mugs. 'Course what with that high-powered job of hers, and now, with her daughter being in hospital, she seems to spend all her time running from pillar to post. And then her previous lady retired suddenly. She was lucky I was available at such short notice.'

Which explained her employment of Mrs Chadden, Rafferty reflected. 'I didn't know she had a daughter,' he remarked.

It was hardly surprising. Their stilted working relationship scarcely encouraged the bringing out of the family albums. Rafferty, who liked to get to know colleagues on a deeper, more personal level, found her standoffish attitude even more constraining.

'Been abroad at school, I imagine. Not met her meself. As I said, it was the hospital visiting on top of her work that got me the job. Some sort of women's trouble, the daughter has, I gather,' Mrs Chadden confided, in delicately lowered tones. 'Must admit, she does look terrible peaky in the latest photos the Missis took of her. So, as I say, what with the long hours the Missis works and then the hospital visiting, she needed a decent woman to look after her, and I was happy to oblige. Recommended I was.' The idea appeared as startling to her as it did to Rafferty.

Must have been a disgruntled copper who had made the recommendation, Rafferty thought. He watched, fascinated, as the cigarette, in apparent defiance of the laws of gravity, remained perched on the edge of her lower lip as she chattered on. 'Best little job I've had for a long time, I don't mind telling you. Course, I've only worked here a few weeks, and she might be being on her best behaviour, like. Some do. But then,' she gazed round the barely clean kitchen with a proprietary air. 'You can see she's used to having things nice.'

She glanced at the clock and frowned. 'I hope she's not going to be much longer, only I've got to get to the chemist in town and it's their early closing day. Promised my old mum I'd pick up some snaps of her and some other old biddies she was in the forces with. I don't like to leave you here on your own. Hardly hospitable.'

Rafferty's glance caught her straw basket, through the holes of which a 2lb bag of sugar was visible, and it occurred to him that it wasn't politeness that was making her anxious so much as concern that, left on their own, the law's finest might half-inch stores that she regarded as her prerogative. Judging from the other holes, the sugar had company. Careful to keep the amusement from his voice, Rafferty attempted to reassure her, but she showed no inclination to trust them and depart.

'Two hours a day I put in here, Monday to Friday,' she told them. 'From eight to ten in the morning.' It was now 10.10 a m on a Saturday and she was obviously getting restive. She slopped water into the cups, gave the teabags a dunk or two and tipped the milk in. 'Help yourselves to sugar,' she invited, as she dumped the cups before them and sat down. Her invitation notwithstanding, as she chattered on, she gazed with a pained expression as Rafferty helped himself to three sugars and took a tentative sip.

Thankfully, they weren't to be subjected to Mrs Chadden's runaway tongue beyond bearing, as, after another couple of minutes, she cocked her head on one side and announced, 'Here she is now,' before rearranging the folds of a cardigan more discreetly over the basket and getting into her coat. 'I'll be off then,' she told Ms Probyn, as the Prosecutor came into the kitchen.

Elizabeth Probyn was a tall woman, and although she was undoubtedly a little overweight, Rafferty noted once again that she carried both height and weight well. She was, he knew, thirty-six, two years younger than him, though from her poised, confident air, she always seemed much older. In a burst of honesty, Rafferty acknowledged that if he hadn't lacked these qualities himself, he wouldn't feel nearly so irritated by her possession of them. Unconsciously, he straightened his shoulders, commenting, 'Charming woman,' when Mrs Chadden had left.

If she suspected that Rafferty was making a sly dig about her poor choice of cleaner, Elizabeth Probyn didn't let it show. 'Can't say I've noticed myself,' she briefly commented, adding, 'shall we go through to the lounge?'

The lounge was a spacious, comfortable room, though like the kitchen, the air of neglect was evident. Rafferty had learned on the police grapevine that Elizabeth Probyn was divorced. Grudgingly, he admitted she had her work cut out keeping up a house of this size if the only help she had was the slapdash Mrs Chadden. She certainly looked tired; the mauve shadows under her eyes were beginning to deepen to purple and gave her an air of fragility he had never noticed before.

Determined to start the interview off on the right foot for once, as they sat down, Rafferty forced a sympathetic comment, 'I gather Mrs Chadden's something of a stop-gap while your daughter's in hospital?' She stared at him as if she resented his familiarity, and he said quickly, 'It must be a worrying time for you.' The frown told him she suspected he had deliberately encouraged her gossiping treasure.

She said, 'It is,' and abruptly changed the subject. 'I gather you wanted to speak to me about the Maurice Smith case?'

His friendly overtures rebuffed, Rafferty now became equally abrupt. 'Yes.' Curiosity compelled him to let his gaze travel surreptitiously round the room, as he gestured to Llewellyn to take out his notebook. The only other time he'd been here, he'd got no further than the hall, and now, he noticed lots of framed photographs, presumably of the daughter, as a tiny baby and young woman, resting on top of the piano in the window alcove. She was an attractive girl, or could be, if she took some trouble. But she dressed drably, as so many young women did nowadays, and she gazed out at the world with wary eyes from beneath an unkempt mop of dark hair.

'I just wanted your general recollections, if any,' Rafferty continued, forcing a calmness he was far from feeling. Keep it light, Rafferty, he advised himself. Don't let her get to you. She's bound to be uptight about her ancient failure, especially as it's you asking the questions. 'For instance, you were the prosecutor in the case. Did you believe him to be guilty?'

As though explaining something to a tiresome child, her voice was measured as she said, 'Come, Inspector, you know I don't make such judgments.'

'But you did that time,' he came back at her. 'In fact, from what I understand, it was you who insisted there was sufficient evidence to press ahead with the case, even though—' He broke off and tried again as he saw her lips thin. 'We've spoken to ex-Inspector Stubbs, the officer in charge,' he added, 'and he was helpful. And as it was his last case before he retired, he remembered it well, even though it was ten years ago.'

'I'm sure.' Ms Probyn gave them a taut smile. 'So do I. It was his last big case and my first, as I've no doubt he told you. And, if it gives you any satisfaction, Inspector, yes, I did believe Smith to be guilty. He was as guilty as hell.' For a moment the idealist that she must have been in her youth showed though the calm facade. Rafferty had always suspected that, underneath, she was a passionate woman and was glad to see his own judgement vindicated. He still couldn't warm to her, but at least it made her seem more human.

She flushed, no doubt embarrassed by her outburst. 'Of course Chief Inspector Stubbs resented us.' She glanced coolly at him. 'Most of the police did.' She shrugged. 'It was a natural enough reaction, I suppose. There we were, a newly-hatched Crown Prosecution Service, taking the decision-making power about who to prosecute out of police hands, and with all us fluffy little chicks eager to stretch our wings. And then there was Inspector Stubbs, the rooster of the coop, wishing us all in perdition. I didn't deal with it very well,' she admitted. It was plain she found the admission difficult.

'Thankfully, experience has brought a measure of self-control, but at the time, his attitude made me stubborn and when he said he had doubts that we'd get a conviction and wanted more time I lost my temper and insisted that the prosecution went ahead. Foolishly, as it turned out. But then I was young, eager to prove myself. No doubt my head was filled with dreams of glory.' She gave a sudden, harsh laugh. 'As you can imagine, the Maurice Smith case brought me down to earth with a bump. I learned a hard lesson that day.'

Rafferty nodded, for the first time getting a glimmer of understanding as to what had helped shape her outlook. The young Elizabeth Osbourne-that was must have felt her career over before it had really begun and that, ever afterwards, her name would be associated with the Maurice Smith fiasco. She'd done well to put it behind her. She'd shed her idealism a touch quicker than most, and acquired a useful maturity; shame it wasn't matched by an equal compassion for the victims of crimes, he thought. But, whatever his private opinions, she had gone on to become one of the youngest Chief Crown Prosecutors in the country; not a bad achievement from such early beginnings. It must make it even more galling to be quizzed on her early days.

'I really don't see what I can say that Archibald Stubbs hasn't already told you,' she said with a return to her earlier brusqueness, as if anxious to get rid of them. 'It's all ancient history now. Do you really think–'

'It might be ancient history to you, Ms Probyn,' Rafferty told her sharply, pleased to be in the right for once. 'But I doubt the Walkers, the Masseys, the Dennington and the Figgs feel the same.' He had the satisfaction of seeing he had discomfited her. But, as always, she had a tart remark ready to put him in his place.

'You'll have plenty of suspects, then. I hope–'

Convinced by her cool gaze that she was mocking him, Rafferty broke in. 'That's right.' It had been one of her most frequent criticisms in the past that he threw his net too wide, employing little logic and less finesse in his conduct of cases, wasting precious resources in the process. 'The little girls Smith assaulted and their devastated parents for a start.' She had the grace to flush and drop her gaze.

'We've also got another angle.' He told her about the 'outing' letter Smith had been sent. 'Probably from a bunch of local feminists, but we've yet to look into that.'

Her interest was piqued when he told her that. Thankfully, she offered no more taunts, intended or otherwise, answering the rest of his questions without another clash. But, as he had expected, he learned nothing new and he stood up to go. 'If you remember anything else that might help, anything at all, we'd be grateful.'

'Of course.' Her gaze was steady, unblinking, but Rafferty felt he could read a message in the grey depths. It was the same as the one that Mrs ffinch-Robinson had less-subtly passed — you'll need all the help you can get. With a brief nod, he made ungraciously for the door, leaving Llewellyn to observe the civilities.

As Llewellyn climbed into the car beside him, he placed a couple of tickets in Rafferty's lap. 'Ms Probyn gave me these for a performance of The Scottish play she's been acting in for the last week, but I think your need is greater than mine. It might help you to see another side of her.'

'I've seen more than enough sides of her already, thanks.' Still, he took the tickets and stuffed them in his pocket. 'Took the wind out of her sails this time, at least. You could see she hated being questioned about the Smith case. I wonder how she really feels about it?'

He gave a cautious glance at Llewellyn before venturing a further comment. 'I know she could be said to have less reason to hold a grudge than Stubbs, Thompson or the victims and their families, but it did come right at the beginning of her career.' Ignoring Llewellyn's sceptical silence, he added, 'Maybe a person's first case, like the first love, stays in the memory.'

Llewellyn threw him a pitying look and Rafferty admitted, 'All right, maybe I'm indulging in a bout of wishful thinking. I agree the Smith case taught her a valuable lesson and could be said to have acted as a springboard to success, but—'

'Quite.'

'But,' Rafferty repeated determinedly, ignoring Llewellyn's tart rejoinder, 'You must admit she seemed pretty ill-at-ease to be discussing the matter.'

'I did notice. But then,' Llewellyn dryly added, 'so would I be in her position, if you were the one doing the questioning. You really must be the proverbial red rag to a bull as far as Ms Probyn's concerned.' He started the car. 'Lucky for you she's tethered by such admirable self-control.'

Rafferty subsided, muttering, 'Leave a bloke his fantasies, at least. They're all that keeps me warm these cold nights.' Especially the one where he banged her up in a cell for the night with a couple of the more downmarket toms for company. He bet that would make her lose that cool, legal manner that got up his nose so much.

As though determined to make Rafferty admit that there was another side to Elizabeth Probyn, as he waited in the driveway for a break in the traffic – always a long-winded business with Llewellyn — the Welshman commented, 'Did you notice that wonderful piano?'

Rafferty refused to be drawn. 'You mean that big polished brown thing by the window? No. Can't say I did.'

'It was a Steinway, that's all. Beautiful thing. The Rolls Royce of pianos.'

'Only the best for Ms Probyn. What did you expect her to have? An out of tune, second-hand job, with yellow keys and wonky pedals?'

The image put him in mind of his own youth and, softer-voiced, he added, 'Funny, you rarely see one now, but everyone used to have a piano when I was a kid. We even had one. God knows why, as none of us could play it, though my old man used to do a bit of a turn on his fiddle when he was merry.' He sighed. 'Happy days. Simpler, kinder too, in many ways. We all used to play out till all hours, especially in the summer holidays. Who would let their kids do that now? Everyone used to be able to leave their front door-key hanging from a length of string behind the letterbox. Try doing that now. You'd think prosecutors like Elizabeth Probyn would have a bit more sympathy with the public's anxieties.'

Wisely, Llewellyn said nothing and, now that the road was clear for well over a hundred yards in either direction, he pulled out and turned in the direction of the refuge and Mrs Nye.

Fortunately Mrs Nye was a woman unlikely to set Rafferty's teeth on edge. He had always found her sympathetic, understanding and willing to help. He hoped this occasion wouldn't prove an exception. She was a widow, well-set up financially, with time on her hands, and she used her money and her time in a variety of benevolent works.

She welcomed them in her usual friendly manner and led them to her office. 'How can I help you, Inspector?' she asked as they all sat down.

As the women he thought the most likely senders of the 'outing' letter were colleagues of Mrs Nye, Rafferty eased gradually around to the reason for their visit. 'We're investigating the murder of Maurice Smith,' he told her. 'I imagine you've read about the case?'

She nodded and clasped her hands firmly together, resting them on the cheap deal table she used as a desk. 'Forgive me for being blunt, but I don't see how I can help you. The women who come here are victims of violence not its perpetrators.'

Rafferty paused before he answered. He admired Mrs Nye, respected her. He didn't want to antagonise her. He hadn't wanted to antagonise Elizabeth Probyn, either, he wryly reflected, but he had still managed it. He reminded himself that Mrs Nye was not Elizabeth Probyn. Often, in the past, her persuasion had convinced a rape victim to make a statement, submit to a medical examination, and thus help the police get a conviction. He wanted her on his side. She was educated, fair-minded and most of all, she believed in justice. He appealed to that last trait now.

'It wasn't actually the women of the refuge we wanted to speak to you about.' She raised an enquiring eyebrow and he continued with the point she had herself raised. 'You know, in many ways I think it's fair to say that Maurice Smith was also a victim – of his upbringing. Apart from being physically unprepossessing, he came from a broken home, had an inadequate mother, a bullying step-father, little love of any description according to his police record. Is it any wonder he became what he did?'

Rafferty had expressed his views on criminal matters often enough to feel like a hypocrite as he voiced their opposite. But it was true that Maurice Smith had had little enough going for him. One of the 'underclass' politicians had taken to spouting about in recent years, Smith had undoubtedly been a victim of sorts. Thankfully, Mrs Nye was too polite to point out his volte-face. She pointed out something else, instead.

'But he still had a choice, Inspector. To rape — or not to rape. Oh, I know the case was thrown out of court, but even his own family – if the papers are to be believed – were quick to disown him as if they, too, believed he was guilty. I'm not condoning his murder. Like you, I believe in the rule of law.'

Rafferty shifted guiltily in his chair and wished his own belief in the law was as firm now as it had been twenty, even fifteen years earlier.

'If there's any way I can help you catch his killer, I'll do it gladly.'

Rafferty was relieved she had made the offer. It made it easier for him to broach the subject. 'As you know, there have recently been a spate of rapist or suspected rapist ‘outing' cases in various areas of the country.' She nodded. 'We've had one or two locally. Maurice Smith was a victim.' He watched her. She didn't seem surprised at the news.

'”Outing” a rapist is a long way from killing him, Inspector.'

Rafferty nodded. He dug in his pocket and laid a photo-copy of the letter Smith had received on the table. 'You said you wanted to help us catch Smith's killer. Quite possibly the people who sent him this had nothing to do with his murder, but I'm sure you appreciate that they need to be questioned. If you suspect any of your Rape Support Group members might have anything to do with 'outing' threats, I hope you'd tell us.'

Mrs Nye's expression was unhappy. 'Even if this,' she tapped a fingernail on the letter, 'has any connection with my members, it's a long way from murder,' she repeated. '”Outing”, as I understand it, is to alert residents to potential dangers, to deter the rapist himself from further rape and hopefully, encourage him to seek help.'

'And is it not also to terrorise him a little?' Rafferty added softly. 'To give him a taste of what it feels to be a victim?'

'I'm sure the motives are mixed.' She handed back the photo-copy. 'The people who carry out such acts are misguided, of course, but understandably so in view of the many lenient sentences handed out by the courts. I don't agree with such actions, but many people do.'

Rafferty felt she was getting away from him, was losing her sympathy and was about to insist she give him some names, some indication if she suspected the involvement of any of her members, when from beside him, Llewellyn intoned softly, '"For evil to triumph, all it takes is for good men to do nothing".'

There was a long pause, then Mrs Nye said, 'Point taken, Sergeant.' Firmly, she added, 'Firstly, I have to say that I don't know anything – not for certain, but I'll tell you who I suspect.' She paused again. 'Three members broke away from my group several weeks ago, and I'm ashamed to say that these three did push for an official 'outing' policy. I believe they had gained the secret support and confidence of several disgruntled policemen in the area, so they had no difficulty in learning of the whereabouts of such men as Smith. They left to form their own group when I told them that, with or without the connivance of maverick policemen, I couldn't condone them breaking the law.'

Mrs Nye must have noticed their quickly exchanged glances at this, for before Rafferty could ask her, she added dryly, 'Oh, I don't know the names of the officers concerned. If I did, I'd give them to you. I approve of policemen taking the law into their own hands even less than I do of anyone else doing so.'

Because policemen usually had the necessary knowledge to get away with it, Rafferty guessed she meant. That was another area of concern for him in this case; the possibility that Smith had been murdered by a copper gone wrong. Because, if a professional, experienced copper like Stubbs had killed Smith, he stood a good chance of getting away with it. It was disconcerting that the thought didn't trouble him more.

Although one half of his troublesome Libran personality pulled him towards the underdog, which was undoubtedly what Smith was, the other half had an even stronger pull towards natural justice – in whatever guise it appeared. Between the two viewpoints, the policeman element came a poor third. God help him and his career, if Superintendent Bradley ever suspected it, for Bradley's zeal for convictions was nearly as strong as his interest in policing on the cheap.

CHAPTER EIGHT

However, for the moment, the car wasn't going to tell them anything more and Rafferty and Llewellyn walked round to the front of the house. After radioing through to the station to check that the car was Sinead Fay's, they walked up the path and knocked on the door.

Although Rafferty had never met Sinead Fay, he had heard of her and what had happened to her, so he knew what to expect. However, the reality was still shocking and he tried not to stare at the ruin of her face as he quickly made the introductions.

The doctors had done a fairly neat job of stitching up the knife slashes, but some of them had gone deep — to the dermis and beyond, to the layer of subcutaneous fat beneath. Eight years ago, the techniques for repairing such facial injuries hadn't been as advanced as they were now, but surely, he thought, even now, something more could be done for her?

'Pretty, aren't they, Inspector?' she commented by way of greeting. 'I call them my feminist battle scars.' Although her voice was careless, matter of fact even, the rage still came through in the aggressive line of the jaw and the resolute stare with which she met his gaze, daring him to show revulsion or pity.

Some of Rafferty's colleagues who had met her, were of the opinion that Sinead Fay had left her scars as they were in order to make men feel guilty. Rafferty suspected they were right. It certainly worked on him. She would, he was sure, make good use of such a natural male reaction. It would be more effective to the feminist cause than any number of rallies and demonstrations.

She must have been an enchantingly pretty girl before the vicious assault on her, Rafferty decided. She shared the glorious Black Irish colouring of his sister, Maggie; hair, as dark as a raven, skin creamy as Jersey milk, and eyes the bright blue of lazy Caribbean skies fringed with lashes as thick and lustrous as palm fronds.

'How did it happen?'

Rafferty was torn abruptly away from his poetical musings by Llewellyn's question and wished he'd thought to warn him what to expect. Of course, he hadn't anticipated that the normally sensitive Llewellyn would voice such a question.

Sinead Fay smiled softly, as though pleased that another unsuspecting male had fallen so neatly into her trap. Rafferty wondered just how much of a kick she got out of telling each new man she met?

'I was attacked by a knife-wielding thug, Sergeant,' she told him. 'One who didn't seem to understand that I found him entirely resistible. I had already refused to go out with him several times. I gather he thought that, with my face carved up, I wouldn't be able to be so particular. Oh and he raped me as well, just to thrust the message home, as it were.'

Llewellyn merely nodded. Rafferty guessed she had expected the usual male response; a shuffling of feet, the lowering of embarrassed eyes, the muttered apology, for when the Welshman failed to do any of these things, her eyes narrowed, her provocative mouth thinned, so that, strangely, it became even more provocative, and she spun on her heel with the words, 'You wanted to speak to me about the death of Maurice Smith, I believe?'

'The murder of Maurice Smith, yes,' Rafferty corrected.

At his correction, she glanced fleetingly over her shoulder, then led the way into what he assumed was her living room, though it looked more like the headquarters of an anarchist group. The walls were covered with posters; some urging the empowerment of women; others featuring the uglier face of man in all its aggressive guises, warrior, rapist, mugger. Piles of leaflets littered every surface and he realized that it was their headquarters, their advice centre, their meeting point where they planned future campaigns. Was it here that the 'outing' campaign had been formulated? he wondered.

There were two other women present. They were bent over a table piled high with letters which they were stuffing into envelopes. He guessed these were the other two women who formed the breakaway Rape Support Group.

The elder of the two stared at them boldly. She had the kind of dark, gypsyish good looks that had no need of make-up. Rafferty guessed it probably infuriated her that her own natural attractiveness would encourage men to indulge in the kind of meaningless flirtation she must despise. As though to counteract her own good looks, she wore a shapeless pair of khaki dungarees with a badge on the strap that said, "Mother Nature Nurtures - What Does FATHER Nature Do?"

She was about thirty-five, he guessed and his assumption that she was Ellen Kemp was confirmed as Sinead Fay made the introductions. The strong chin and squared shoulders spoke of the confident woman that Mrs Nye had described. She had told them that Ellen Kemp ran her own very successful business as well as bringing up her daughter single-handedly. She had the air of quiet self-assurance about her that made him wonder why she hadn't assumed the mantle of leader. But presumably her business took up a lot of her time. And there was always the position of the power behind the throne. The other woman was about twenty-five and was introduced as Zonie Anderson. She just nodded, but said nothing.

Ellen Kemp held his gaze for several seconds before she said, 'Gwen Nye rang and told us you were on your way, though really, I can't imagine what you—'

'We just want to ask a few questions, Ms Kemp, nothing to worry about. We're investigating the murder of Maurice Smith and—'

'Wow! Men!'

Astonished to hear a voice in this house enthuse over his sex, Rafferty's head swivelled. A teenage girl stood in the doorway behind Sinead Fay. She shared Ellen Kemp's bold stare, but the stare she directed at him and Llewellyn was much warmer, the smile so naturally flirtatious that Rafferty wondered what malign trick of the fates had placed her in a house where males were regarded as some kind of alien race. Behind him he heard Ellen Kemp give the briefest of sighs.

'This is my daughter, Jenny,' she told them shortly.

Rafferty almost laughed at the cruel irony of it. About eighteen, Jenny's similarity to her mother was striking, though it obviously extended no further than the physical.

As though to demonstrate this fact, Jenny, hips swaying, sashayed slowly across the room and sat on the arm of her mother's chair, where she commenced a provocative swinging of one bare and slender leg. 'What are they doing here?' she asked her mother, as she appraised Llewellyn with such a steady, under-the-lashes stare of admiration that his ears began to turn bright pink.

With a restraint obviously born from plenty of practise, Ellen Kemp merely commented, 'These are policemen, darling. I can't imagine they'll be here long.'

'Pity,' Jenny said, continuing to stare moony-eyed at the discomfited Welshman.

Across Ellen Kemp's face passed a succession of emotions; irritation, affectionate exasperation, resignation and finally, determination. 'If you've got nothing better to do, why don't you take the post to the mailbox?'

'What's the rush?' Jenny countered. She removed her gaze from Llewellyn for long enough to assess and dismiss the table with its piles of leaflets and already filled envelopes and said, 'There's nothing there that can't wait.'

As Jenny showed no inclination to leave, her mother was forced to resort to bribery. She dug in her pocket and said, 'Here's twenty pounds. Why don't you and Cindy go to the pictures? You said you wanted to see that new romantic comedy.'

'Trying to get rid of me, Mum?' Jenny asked. However, the bribe worked, because she took the heavy-handed hint and the crisp note, pushed herself up from her mother's chair and, after picking up the post, swayed her way back to the door. 'All right, I'll make myself scarce. Maybe I'll go to see Aunt Beth later. Her place can't be any more dreary than this house and maybe I might be able to cheer her up.'

'I don't think that's a good idea, Jenny. She could do without your particular brand of cheering at the moment.'

Jenny shrugged.

'And remember what I said about going with Cindy. I don't want you going on your own.'

Jenny pulled another face as she made for the door again. 'Honestly, Mum, the entire world isn't populated by dirty old men in raincoats, you know. Though to hear you—'

'Please, Jenny, just do as I ask.'

Jenny flounced her way out, though she paused for long enough as she passed Llewellyn to say, 'Ciao' and blow him a kiss. The front door slammed behind her leaving a strained silence, which, after a moment, Rafferty broke. He gestured at the unnoccupied settee, and asked, 'Okay if we sit down?' Sinead Fay nodded. 'As I said, we wanted to talk to you about the murder of Maurice Smith.'

Interestingly, none of the women made a comment about his death. Given their frequent outbursts in the press about the leniency of the Courts in dealing with rapists and other violent criminals, he'd have expected a "good riddance", at the very least, and it was revealing that they chose to remain silent. He guessed Jenny's behaviour had not only embarrassed them, but had also to an extent taken the wind out of their sails. He decided to take advantage of it by launching a surprise attack.

'I wonder, Ms Fay, if you can tell me what your car was doing parked by the victim's flat from last Wednesday morning to Thursday evening?'

There was a moment's electrified silence. But something about Rafferty's body language or choice of words must have given him away, for Ellen Kemp told them calmly, 'You're mistaken, Inspector. Sinead's car was parked in my garage all last week.'

Rafferty admired her coolness. Assuming it was the same car and it had been parked there for the reason he suspected, she was taking a chance that nobody had noted the number. Still, it was a calculated risk and he doubted Ellen Kemp ever did anything without calculating the odds. It was probably the character trait that had made her a successful businesswoman. And she had had several days since Smith's murder to plan her answers.

A small voice of caution whispered in his brain that they'd hardly have parked the car outside Smith's flat if they'd been planning to murder him, and he as quickly riposted that murder mightn't have been the plan, merely the result. Having witnessed the pragmatic means she had used to remove her wayward daughter from the room, he doubted Ellen Kemp was fanatical enough to incriminate herself deliberately or to allow the other two to do so. A woman of her spirit would find the restrictions of a long prison sentence unendurable.

He questioned her further 'You say Ms Fay's car was in your garage?' She nodded. 'Can you explain why?'

'It's simple enough. It was playing up. It's quite an old car and Sinead was tired of being ripped off by male mechanics and having to put up with their sexist comments. She knows I'm quite good with cars, so she asked me to have a look at it.'

'And you didn't take it out at all?'

'Well, of course I took it out. I had to give it a test run to make sure I'd cured the problem. But I only took it round the block. Nowhere near Smith's flat.'

'You know where he lived, then?' he quickly asked and she answered equally quickly.

'I should imagine the whole world knows by now. Or don't you read the papers, Inspector?' Rafferty began to see where Jenny got her pertness from; they took different directions, that was all. 'I had no idea where he lived before his death.' She met his eyes as though daring him to contradict her. 'I had no reason to. None of us did.'

Rafferty nodded. Hoping their investigations would reveal whether she was telling the truth or not, he gestured to Llewellyn to take over the questioning; possibly, his more low-key technique would get through their defences. Besides, he wanted a few free moments to study their faces.

As though suspecting she might be a weak link, Llewellyn turned first to Sinead Fay. 'I understand you and Ms Kemp and Ms Anderson here, have recently broken away from the main Rape Support Group organisation,' he began. 'Can you tell me why that was?

When she answered, it was clear she had taken her guide from the older woman's responses. 'Are you saying you don't know?'

'We don't operate on hearsay, Ms Fay,' Llewellyn told her mildly. 'I'd like to hear it from you.'

She shrugged. 'They'd become a bunch of bleeding heart liberals, writing polite little letters to their MPs, asking them to do something about the rising levels of rape.'

Llewellyn had been wise to put his questions to Sinead Fay, Rafferty realised. Because, although she made an attempt to lose the "rant" from her voice, as she continued, she was unable to keep it up.

'Asking!' Her blue eyes were scornful. 'They should have been demanding, not asking. Making the cause front page news, not—'

'How?' Rafferty immediately asked. He was quickly interrupted.

Sinead,' Ellen Kemp's voice held a warning note. 'I'm sure they don't want to listen to all this.'

'Oh, but we do,' Rafferty assured her. He turned back to Sinead Fay, 'How?' he asked again. From his pocket he pulled a photocopy of the threatening letter he had found in Smith's sideboard. Holding it in front of him, he leaned forward challengingly to encourage an incautious response. 'By “outing” the rapists? Was that how you planned to get banner headlines?'

Or had they planned an even more newsworthy publicity campaign? he wondered. Sinead Fay, for one, seemed fanatical enough for anything and Ellen Kemp might have been unable to restrain her. If so, Sinead must be very pleased with her efforts. The story of Maurice Smith's "execution" had filled the front page of every newspaper in the country.

For a moment Sinead Fay's eyes glowed with something akin to triumph and Rafferty was sure she was going to confess to Smith's murder. But then, as Ellen Kemp frowned at her, the fanatical light faded and she drew back. He could almost see the shutters go down.

'I just told you how,' she said flatly. 'By hounding as many MPs as we could, by making their lives a misery until they agreed to take up our cause. As for that letter, it's nothing to do with us. I've never seen it before.' The other two echoed her statement.

With an apologetic shrug, Rafferty gestured to Llewellyn to resume the questioning.

'Yet, I understood from Mrs Nye that all three of you proposed the idea of an “outing” campaign here in Elmhurst. Are you saying that's not the case?'

As though concerned that Sinead Fay might let herself be goaded into making further provocative statements, Ellen Kemp answered. 'No. She's merely saying that we haven't organised such a campaign.' As though anxious to take their interest away from her outspoken friend and on to herself, she continued, 'But maybe an “outing” campaign is what's needed to make the authorities sit up and take notice. Women have always been too quiet, too undemanding about the things that affect them. That's why their needs are so often ignored. They should take their cue from the AIDS lobby.'

The other two were nodding. Obviously, Rafferty reflected, this was a much discussed issue.

Although she kept her voice level, her feelings in check, it was evident that Ellen Kemp felt every bit as strongly as the younger woman. 'Do you know how much money and help the AIDS campaigners have had showered on them?' she asked. 'All right,' she admitted, 'many people would say it's a worthy cause. But then, so is helping the victims of rape. So is doing something about the level of sexual assault.' She leant forward as though to convince them. 'Apart from financial input from the government, the AIDS campaign get film stars hosting charity dinners, rock stars throwing charity concerts. What do rape victims get? You know the answer yourself — pretty pastel rape suites in police stations if they're lucky; a few pot plants to give the impression that the powers that be give a damn about women's fears.'

Ellen Kemp rose, walked to the table and picked up a selection of the RSG leaflets and handed them to Rafferty. 'I suggest you read these, you'll find all the facts in there. Were you aware, for instance, that over 20,000 women and girls are raped or sexually assaulted in this country every year? - and that's just the tip of the iceberg. There are many more who never report it. A fifth of the victims are under sixteen; little girls, Inspector. Vulnerable little girls, just like Smith's victims. Easy prey for rapists, of course, that's why they target them. They can be pretty sure that the ordeal of testifying in court will deter most of them from seeking justice. Understandable, of course, when you know how their courage is rewarded by the – mostly male – legal system.’

She opened a leaflet and began to read, her voice matter-of-fact rather than ranting. 'Take just one year — 1991 — more than 4,000 women and girls reported rape to the police and just 559 men were found guilty. Roughly one in eight. With time off for good behaviour, most of them were out in very few years. It's their victims who got the life sentence.'

Rafferty knew what she said was true. It often angered him; he had a mother, sisters, nieces. Maybe one day, he'd even have daughters. He knew the terrible, life-long damage such assaults inflicted, the shattered lives, the mental trauma, the vanished confidence, that was so often the victim's lot.

Some, like the Walker's daughter, committed suicide. He could understand the women's anger, their determination to do something. He frequently felt the same way. That was the trouble.

But he knew he couldn't afford to show his weakness. These women were suspects in a murder case, and it would be as well for him to remember it. Now, thrusting aside his instinctive sympathies, he said bluntly, 'I'm aware of all this, Ms Kemp. But I'm only a policeman. I just try to catch villains. And whatever Maurice Smith did or didn't do, and whether I like it or not, I have the task of finding his killer. Now, perhaps you could tell me where you all were on the evening of Thursday 18 December, when we understand Maurice Smith was murdered.'

'Certainly. We were here. We were all here.'

'All evening?' She nodded.

As an alibi, it was far from convincing. Rafferty was beginning to think of them as The Three Musketeers – one for all and all for one. He'd made a bad mistake in speaking to them together like this. Next time he'd make sure he spoke to each of them alone; that way the wiser head of Ellen Kemp would be unable to restrain Sinead's hotter one.

'What about your daughter? Was she here, too?'

Ellen Kemp's smile was ironic. 'No. As you saw, my daughter prefers ogling men to getting involved with her mother's campaigns. She spent that entire day at her friend Cindy's house and slept over. Check, if you like.' She supplied the address of her daughter's friend and sat back.

They were too much on their guard for Rafferty to imagine they would get much more out of them today and, recognising the futility of continuing the interview, he stood up to go. But he was more than ever convinced they were involved.

'They sent that letter,' he said to Llewellyn as they walked down the path. 'I'm sure of it. It would explain why they were outside Smith's flat – probably scared he'd do a bunk so they were taking turns on guard duty. Making sure he didn't get a chance to escape whatever punishment they had decided on. We already know that from where they were positioned they would have had a good view of both entrances of Smith's place. They'd have seen anyone going in or out, especially as there are street lamps within a few yards of back and front. If they didn't kill Smith, the odds are they know who did, so let's work from there. Who, exactly, are Sinead Fay and her friends likely to try to protect?'

'Smith's young victims, obviously.'

'Not Stubbs and Thompson?'

'I can't see someone like Sinead Fay putting herself out to protect policeman, even ones who had supplied them with information. I'm sure, like the other women, they would have thought the two men more than capable of looking after themselves.'

'What about Frank Massey?'

Llewellyn hesitated. 'More difficult. He's what you might call a halfway-house as far as they're concerned. A victim of sorts, but again, I think it likely they'd feel that as a grown man he would be capable of protecting himself; even more so as he's already had one spell in prison. Whereas Smith's victims proper are still very young, possibly naive.'

Rafferty nodded as they got in the car. 'That's what I thought. We'll have to check with the neighbours. Put Hanks on to it. It's possible the neighbours noticed any comings or goings from Fay's house during the evening.'

He didn't hold out much hope. The neighbours on one side were an elderly couple. It was another dull, dismal day and, like many people they had their living room light on. He had noticed them on their arrival. The television had been on and plates of brunch in their laps, already engrossed in the day's viewing that probably continued till they went to bed. Perhaps they'd have more luck with the people on the other side.

'Get Hanks to check out Ellen Kemp's garage at the same time,' he added. 'If, as she says, Sinead Fay's car was there last week, her own vehicle could well have been parked on the street. The neighbours would have noticed and remarked on it, if so. After all, who's going to leave their car outside these icy mornings and give themselves the chore of scraping the frost off the windscreen if they don't have to? Better get him to check that she was telling the truth about the daughter, too, though she seemed too confident about that to be lying.'

Llewellyn nodded, then added, 'I was thinking.' Rafferty waited. 'Mrs Penny, Smith's landlady, said she rarely goes out in the evening. Don't you think it's strange that she should go out on the night Smith was murdered?'

Rafferty glanced at him, pleased that he was ahead of his sergeant. It was unusual at this stage of an investigation. 'Perhaps you should put that the other way round? Strange that Smith should be murdered on the night she goes out. It's clear that whoever killed Smith knew the flat downstairs would be empty that evening and made use of the knowledge. Forensic found traces of blood on the fire stairs at the back of the building, and we found a navy thread, which presumably came from his blue and maroon tracksuit.'

Although they were still waiting to learn whether the blood and tracksuit threads had been Smith's, Rafferty felt it probable. He also felt they had enough evidence to guess what had happened.

'Getting a body, even a light one like Smith's, down those fire stairs is unlikely to have been a silent operation, so whoever killed Smith would have been keen to know the downstairs flat was unoccupied that night. Go and see Mrs Penny later today, Dafyd. Find out who knew she'd be going out. Ask her when she mentioned it to Smith. You might also ask around and see if anyone noticed a strange car parked behind the house. We know the lock on the back gate was forced, recently too, as the wood is still clean; all the evidence points to the body being taken out that way. I reckon whoever killed him backed their vehicle onto the hard-standing, using the gate to conceal it. Then they walked round to the front, got the onceover from Smith via his spyhole, was let in, and killed him, bundling his body into a rubbish bag and down the back stairs.'

'Pretty cold-blooded.'

'Don't they say revenge is a dish best eaten cold?'

Llewellyn frowned, then reminded him, 'According to his landlady, Smith was very careful about opening his door to strangers. Understandable, of course; he'd had to move from his previous address when a sharp-eyed neighbour recognised him and caused trouble. With this “outing” threat, he'd have been even more cautious, especially when his friendly landlady was out for the evening. He must have felt he had nothing to fear from whoever he opened his door to. So — who would be likely to fall into such a category?'

Rafferty provided the obvious answer. 'Police, family, old friends – if any exist. Though, as Mrs Penny said he had no friends that just leaves the police and his own family.'

'Jes Bullock, you mean.'

Rafferty nodded. 'He'd certainly stand further questioning, though to be frank, I can't see the ladies of the RSP protecting such a man. Still, something's eating at him, I'm sure of it. We'll go and see him again this evening, as soon as we're free,' Rafferty decided.

Thoughtfully, Llewellyn put forward another possibility. 'You said, other than his family, Smith would be most likely to open the door to a uniformed officer, like Thompson. If we take that together with Mrs Nye's information that she thought maverick policemen were supplying Sinead Fay and her friends with information on possible “outing” targets, Thompson may well have left a computer trail behind him.'

'Doubt it. No, if Thompson has been supplying the breakaway RSG women with information, either the information he obtained wasn't taken from a traceable source like a computer, or he got someone else to access it for him. That's another area to look into. You're the computer buff, can I leave you to check that out?'

Llewellyn nodded.

'Check with the Social as well. They might have Smith cross-referenced in their files under his original and his current name. It's possible they gave his address out to someone. Whoever's responsible for this local spate of “outing” threats is getting their information from official sources. Trouble is, it may be difficult to get to the bottom of it. Most of the coppers I've spoken to about the case were of the private opinion that whoever killed Smith did an excellent job. If one of them provided Thompson with Smith's whereabouts, he's unlikely to admit it.'

`Rafferty was sure that if Thompson was guilty, he and his informant would be likely to hang together, scared, as the saying went, that, if they didn't, they'd hang separately.

'Anyway,' he decided. 'After what we learned from Mrs Nye, we'd better make checking the alibis of Stubbs and Thompson a priority. If they were supplying information to those three women we need something to tie them together. All we've got at the moment is the fact that Smith opened his door willingly, tied to the probability that Sinead Fay's old Zephyr was parked outside his flat. What we need if some proof.'

He fastened his seat belt. 'Come on, let's get back to the station. Maybe, by now, Liz Green and Lilley will have turned up a nosey neighbour or two for us.'

Llewellyn was gone for more than an hour. When he returned, Rafferty pushed aside the paperwork with a frustrated sigh and asked, 'How did you get on?'

'Smith knew several weeks beforehand that Mrs Penny would be going out that night.'

'Time enough for him to confide the information to his loving family, then,' Rafferty concluded. 'Go on.'

'Apart from the local shopkeepers, Mrs Penny was certain she told no one else. She told me there was no one else for her to tell.'

'Mmm. Gives us a lead to Jes Bullock, if nothing else. What about the neighbours? Did any of them notice a strange car on Mrs Penny's hard-standing?'

'Unfortunately, that alleyway leads not only to the back gardens of the houses, but also to a row of rented Council garages. One of the men who rents a garage there works as a mechanic in his spare time and uses it for his workshop, so there are often strange cars parked there; I gather he tends to park the overflow where he can fit them, though, for what it's worth, none of Mrs Penny's neighbours could remember seeing a strange car parked on her hard-standing that night. If there was one it wasn't there long.'

Rafferty was just digesting this when Liz Green and Lilley reported back. He was gratified to learn that one, at least, of his ideas had borne fruit.

Miss Primrose Partington hadn't been the only one of Smith's neighbours to notice the strange car parked on the street. With the single exception of the baker's, it was a residential road, the nearest parade of shops was half a mile away. So apart from the residents and their visitors few strangers would have reason to park there, certainly not for longer than the time it would take to make their purchases at the baker's.

Lilley and Liz Green found several of Smith's neighbours who had noticed the strange car, and one, a man who worked as a commercial traveller, had even taken down the number as a prelude to ringing the police, but his wife had persuaded him against it. Only trouble was, he was back on the road and could be anywhere as he followed no particular schedule. But his wife said he rang in several times while he was away.

Lilley said she expected a phone call from him this evening and had promised she would ask him about the car. Rafferty, not one to rely on such promises, told Lilley to go back early that evening and wait for the husband to call, adding, that if the man didn't have the number on him, he could at least tell them what he had done with it. He prayed it hadn't been lost or thrown away in the meantime.

More reports came in and Rafferty dismissed Lilley. The forensic teams that Rafferty had sent to Smith's flat and Dedman Wood had finished their on-site investigations. They had turned up little enough at the Wood; the ground had been too hard for tyre tracks. And, so far, all they had been able to find out about the rope used in the second hanging and the few fibres left behind from the first were not encouraging. Whoever had strung Smith up had used rope commonly available from marine stores supplying the yachties up and down the Essex coast and beyond. It sold in huge quantities in all coastal areas and it was doubtful if further investigations would turn up anything more.

Rafferty and Llewellyn had debated on the difficulty of suspending a body and whether one could do it alone or would need assistance. Forensic had confirmed that, although the task would be made no easier by being done at night, it was not impossible to do it singlehandedly, particularly as Smith had been slight, weighing only eight and a half stone.

Of course determination would provide extra strength if any were needed, Rafferty knew. And whoever had killed Smith and carted his body to Dedman Wood for his ritualistic hanging had been very determined. Pity they'd chosen the dead of winter for the deed. Pity too, that the body had vanished after its first suspension. It meant they couldn't be sure that the rope used the second time had been the original. It could have been removed, like the wrist bindings and hood, and another substituted. Consequently they couldn't afford to let the type of knots used encourage them to jump to conclusions about the killer's identity; the professional-looking noose could easily be a deliberate red herring intended to lead them astray.

Of course, as Rafferty now remarked, whoever had strung him up the second time was unlikely to know that the police had already learned of the first hanging. They must have hoped to conceal the ritualistic aspect of his killing, maybe even the cause of death. If so, as Sam Dally had commented, it had been a forlorn hope. Were they blind, stupid or just panic-stricken?

Perplexed, he shook his head. But if the body-snatchers had merely hoped to sow doubt and uncertainty they had succeeded very well with him at least.

Obfuscation, Llewellyn had called it. Rafferty had merely nodded his head when Llewellyn had made this pronouncement and had taken the first opportunity to surreptitiously check up in the office dictionary. To obfuscate, he had read: to obscure or darken; to perplex or bewilder. That sounded about right, he agreed, though he wished Llewellyn would give up using long words when a short one would do. It was an irritating habit.

While Llewellyn had been with Mrs Penny, Rafferty had checked on local Zephyrs. There were only twelve within a twenty-mile radius and a check had revealed that nothing was on file against their owners. Of course, as Rafferty commented, that didn't mean another family member hadn't taken the keys and "borrowed" it. That was the trouble, he mused. Every time you found a worthwhile area to investigate, it meant checking out all a person's friends and relations, which meant a reduced team to check out everything else. It was important that they pin down the Zephyr parked outside Smith's flat. If they could at least get as far as a probable on Sinead Fay's car, they'd have a little more to go on.

Trouble was, of course, it still wouldn't be proof and he decided to leave further checks on the Zephyr owners till Lilley had been able to speak to Smith's other neighbour.

The work of the forensic team had proved more fruitful at Smith's flat. Although the only fingerprints found in the room were those of Smith and his landlady, forensic had confirmed that the small patches of blood on the armchair and the fire escape stairs were Smith's. They had also confirmed that the threads found on the stairs had definitely belonged to the tracksuit in which Smith had been found.

Rafferty had discussed the matter with forensic and had been told that this knife must be at least 10" long, as it had gone through the thin padding of the cheap armchair in which Smith had been sitting, before penetrating the flesh and piercing the heart.

A fluke? Rafferty wondered. Or a knowing thrust? They were aware of no one with any reason to kill Smith who had sufficient medical knowledge to pierce the correct spot knowingly; certainly not from behind and through a padded chair. Rafferty stared at the report with anxious eyes as the face of Stubbs danced before them. A policeman would have more opportunity than most to learn.

Archie-Archibald Stubbs; unhappily, Rafferty rolled the name around on his tongue. Although he was much older, grey, taciturn and given to cryptic observations, Rafferty felt that beneath the superficial differences, he and Stubbs weren't so dissimilar. They even had unfortunate names in common, though at least Ma hadn't saddled him with Aloysius as a first name.

Stubbs had been a good copper, a straight copper, everyone he had spoken to about him had agreed on that, though he had the unfortunate knack of rubbing his superiors up the wrong way; another similarity. Rafferty found himself smiling ruefully.

Before his premature retirement from the force, Archie Stubbs had been generally regarded as an honest, plain-speaking man, the sort who called a spade a bloody shovel. Again like me, was Rafferty's immediate response. But when it came to devious behaviour, he'd been no match for the politicos upstairs. No match at all.

Thompson, too, had paid the price for embarrassing the brass. Like Stubbs, he had decades of genuine service and successes under his belt, had passed his inspector's exams, and should have received promotion. Instead, because of one failed case – in which the decision to prosecute hadn't even rested with the police – he had been shunted sideways, back into uniform and his career had advanced no further.

Who could blame either of them, Rafferty thought, if their resentment had simmered over the years; Stubbs, in his arid, lonely bungalow, and Thompson, denied the rank he must feel he deserved as less experienced men were promoted over him. Smith had been the catalyst of their misfortunes. But, he wondered again, would they act ten years later?

Yes, he realised, they just might. If, as he and Llewellyn had discussed, another more recent occurrence could be traced back to Smith. Some tragedy or trauma that could be connected with him. Aware he had been putting off any further investigation into the police suspects, scared of what he might find, he knew he couldn't delay checking them out much longer.

But for the moment, he was able to thrust the thought aside as more reports came in.

The Australian police had got back to them. According to Hanks, the Walker family had checked out and were in the clear. None of them had made a surreptitious trip back to the old country. They had all been seen about their business in the normal way around the time Smith had died. So, that was one lot of suspects out of the running. Which – apart from the police suspects – left them with the Masseys, the Figgs and the Dennington families, plus Sinead Fay and her friends.

The Dennington boys’ regiment had cleared them. They had both been on duty during the relevant time, the fact verified by senior officers. And, with the father dead, that left only the victim herself and her mother.

Hanks also reported on his other assignment and Rafferty's forehead began to resemble a ploughed field as he learned that Ellen Kemp was either entirely innocent or had the luck of the devil. It turned out she had a double garage, a sizable old-fashioned affair that was built to house the larger cars of an earlier era; the Bentleys, Daimlers and Rolls and had more than enough space to accommodate two cars as well as providing ample space to work on them.

Sinead Fay's neighbours had proved no help either. Hanks had checked and the neighbours on the other side of RSG woman had been out on the evening of Maurice Smith's murder. They had left home by cab around seven that evening and hadn't returned till the early hours.

The elderly couple on the other side were no more helpful, even though Hanks said they seemed desperately eager to be so. His visit was, Hanks told Rafferty, obviously the most exciting thing that had happened to them in years. Rafferty sighed. As he had guessed, the television had been on all evening and had drowned any sound from next door. What Ellen Kemp had told them about her daughter had also checked out.

Rafferty perked up when Lilley returned to the station and reported that he had spoken to Smith's other neighbour, but he deflated again when he learned that the wretched man was unable to remember what he'd done with the piece of paper on which he had scribbled the registration number. Worse, his wife now thought that she'd thrown it away after persuading her husband not to ring the police and report it.

'Isn't it just great?' he complained to Llewellyn after dismissing Lilley with the instruction to keep pushing the couple to find the elusive paper. 'Why did they have to be so damn reasonable that night of all nights? Any other time and half the street would have been behind the net curtains with their biros and scraps of paper, noting down strange men, strange cars and windscreens lacking the Road Fund Licence, left, right and centre.'

Rafferty had hoped for a definite confirmation that the Zephyr had been Sinead Fay's. Now, he was still in Limbo-land and didn't know whether to accept that the piece of paper would never turn up and start, instead, to further check out the other Zephyr-owners, their friends and relations, in order to eliminate them or whether he should delay such checks in the now faint hope that the piece of paper would still turn up. In the end, he decided to wait and see.

Although it was nine o'clock on an icy winter's night, children as young as eight were still out on the Bullocks' estate, their pinched faces blue with cold and their eyes watchful.

As Rafferty and Llewellyn got out of the car, one of the older boys yelled at them. 'Hey, copper. You wanted to know when Roger the Rapist was about last week.'

Rafferty turned. The youth was about fifteen, but he already had cold, watchful eyes and hardened features. 'That's right,' he said. 'Why? Can you help?'

The boy nodded. His name was Darren, he told them. 'He was 'ere last Thursday. I saw him leavin' from up on the balcony.'

Rafferty frowned. 'Thursday? You're sure about that? Sure it wasn't the Wednesday?'

'Nah.' Darren shook his head. 'Eastenders had just finished on the telly and I went to knock for me mate. While I was waiting for him to open the door I saw Roger the Rapist's car pullin' out of the car park.'

Rafferty was surprised that a lad like Darren should help the law. From the look in his eyes, so was Darren. 'You live here?'

'Yeah. Number 58.'

Rafferty felt a sudden doubt. How well could Darren have known Smith? After all, not only had Smith visited his family infrequently, he was far from outgoing and unlikely to pause to swap gossip with the local toughs. 'You're sure it was Maurice Smith?'

'Course I'm sure. I know everything that goes on in these flats. It's my place. Besides, 'ow could I mistake that miserable ferret face? It's been splashed over the newspapers enough lately.'

'I'm not saying I don't believe you Darren. But you must realise that what you've told us is important. Can anyone corroborate what you say?'

'Do what?'

'Do you know if anyone else saw him at the same time?'

Darren's face cleared. 'Yeah. My mate's mum. Sharon Gates at number 23. She'd be able to tell you. She opened the door to me just as he reversed his car out of the parkin' bay like a bleedin' maniac. She yelled at him over the balcony that he'd kill somebody, drivin' like that.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Course, she didn't actually see him, any more than I did. The angle was wrong. But we both recognised his car.' Darren's lip curled as he added, 'Boasted to my kid brother once that he was an Advanced Driver — passed the test, like. Lyin' bastard. The way he reversed out Thursday night, I shouldn't fink he's even got a license. Thought old Bullockbrains, his dad, was a rotten driver, but he's worse. All over the road, he was, nearly ran into my old man's car.'

Darren was wrong, Rafferty knew. Maurice Smith had passed the Advanced Driving Test. The searches through his flat had confirmed as much. It was Smith's one solid achievement in life. 'Might have been drunk,' Rafferty suggested.

'Nah. Not him. Kevin, his brother, told me once he hardly touches a drop.' This was said with the scorn of the experienced drinker. Darren's lips drew back over sharp teeth. 'Know why too, now, don't we? Must 'ave been scared he'd give away his real identity and let slip what he does to little girls. I mean, it's not somefing old Bullock would want him to boast about, is it? Not like 'avin' a bank robber in the family. Must be a bugger 'aving a creep like that in the family, especially if people find out.'

Darren's sharp features suddenly became even more razor-edged. 'Here — maybe he was worried it was goin' to come out?'

'Why do you say that?' Rafferty asked.

'Jes Bullock was offering money in the pub to 'ave him duffed up late Thursday afternoon; a persuader to get him to move, he said. Why should he do that after all this time unless he had reason to think it was going to get out? Obviously, 'e was 'oping to scare him away from the area. Or else,' Darren added darkly, 'he changed his mind and decided to get rid permanent. I mean, Roger the Rapist is dead, isn't he? You can't get more permanent than that.'

Darren having declined to tell them if anyone in the pub had taken up Jes Bullock's offer, Rafferty decided not to press the matter and let Darren go off with one of his mates, leaving the two policemen to check his story with Sharon Gates, his friend's mother. She confirmed that Maurice Smith had been at the flats on Thursday evening.

'I told you Jes Bullock had a guilty secret,' Rafferty remarked smugly as they tramped back down the stairs. 'Do you think it was him driving the car that night and not Maurice Smith at all? He might not have been good at anything else, but you've got to be a first rate driver to pass the Advanced test. His stepfather's a big bloke. He could easily have overpowered Smith and taken him somewhere private so his mates could convince him it would be healthier for him if he left town. Or maybe Darren's right, and he decided to end the problem of his stepson once and for all. It's possible, especially if Maurice had told him about the “outing”' threat.'

Llewellyn didn't agree. 'Why bring him back to Smith's flat, stab him, then take him all the way to Dedman Wood and string him up from The Hanging Tree? If there was one way to guarantee that Smith's picture appeared on the front page of every newspaper, that was it. Surely that would be the last thing Jes Bullock would want? Even if he did decide to rid himself permanently of his stepson, he would be certain to remove all traces of Smith's identity and dump the body far from home. That way the body would be just another John Doe and Jes Bullock could tell anyone who asked that his stepson had moved away.'

Rafferty nodded. 'Maybe.' As Llewellyn made in the direction of the other staircase that would lead them to the Bullocks' landing, Rafferty stopped him. 'After what we've just learned, I think, we should wait till Sam Dally's got a few more answers for us on those bruises before we tackle Bullock again. He surely can't be much longer, unless his Christmas rush has started, after all. Anyway, I want to check what Darren told us with the pub landlord. Let's get along there and see what we can find out.’

Left alone, Llewellyn stared broodingly into space for another five minutes before, giving himself a mental shake, he picked up the phone and rang through to Liz Green. After telling her he'd be back to pick her up later for the interviews with the Dennington and Figg families, he made for the car park. He was glad of another busy day. It would keep his mind occupied.

Putting aside his unprofitable thoughts on personal matters, which he had, anyway, already gone through over and over again without forming any constructive conclusion as to what he should do, Llewellyn forced himself to concentrate on the task Rafferty had left with him. At least there he felt he had a reasonable chance of success.

He decided to begin the delicate task of investigating the two police suspects by first looking into Stubbs' movements. Of the two men, he felt the older, more senior, man had been the most affected by the failure of the case. It was therefore logical to assume he would be the most likely of the two to take action. Llewellyn felt it wouldn't have been difficult for him to get hold of a police uniform; he might have managed to hold on to his old one from the time before he had joined the CID.

Llewellyn, having taken Rafferty's hints to heart, resolved to speak to Stubbs himself only if he could find out what he needed to know no other way. Stubbs, like Thompson, had devoted years of his life to the force and deserved a certain consideration – especially if he turned out to be innocent. He felt Rafferty had been right about that. Llewellyn was a little surprised to find himself agreeing with his inspector. It was a novel experience.

Settling on Stubbs's cheery neighbour as the obvious source of information, he parked the car round the corner from their street. Fortunately, he had only to wait half-an-hour before he saw Stubbs drive off towards town.

Llewellyn waited for a minute, drove round the corner and parked in front of Stubbs' bungalow. He got out of the car and, for the benefit of Stubbs's gnome-like neighbour who was standing at his front door chatting to the postman, he made a pantomime of disappointment at finding Stubbs' drive empty.

Things were falling into place nicely, Llewellyn reflected, with a tiny, self-mocking smile. If Stubbs's neighbour hadn't been standing at his own door, he would have had to knock which would have robbed the visit of the casual air with which he had cloaked it.

The neighbour shouted hello and walked up the path as the postman resumed his deliveries. 'Aren't you one of those chaps who visited Mr Stubbs the other day?'

'That's right.' Llewellyn walked over to the gate.

'Thought I recognised you. I'm afraid you've missed him. What a pity. He gets so few visitors.' The gnome seemed a kindly man and was genuinely upset that Stubbs should have missed this one. But then he cheered up. 'He's only gone to get a bit of shopping. I don't suppose he'll be more than half-an-hour.'

Llewellyn made a play of consulting his watch. 'I can't wait, unfortunately and I won't be able to return till Thursday evening. I suppose he'll be in then?'

'Thursday?' The gnome frowned. 'He's not often in on Thursday evenings. Usually, he goes to visit a friend of his — a chap called Thompson. Perhaps you know him?'

'No. I'm afraid not.' Llewellyn hadn't expected it to be so easy. Now he knew where Stubbs was generally to be found on Thursday evenings, the next step was to try to find out if he and Thompson had actually been there last Thursday. Llewellyn gave the helpful gnome one of his rare smiles. 'Thank you. You've saved me another wasted journey.'

'Maybe I can give him a message for you?'

Llewellyn paused as if considering. 'No. I don't think so. It's nothing that can't wait. But thanks for the offer. I'll contact him myself another time.' Llewellyn said goodbye and as he walked back down the path, he could almost hear Rafferty's cryptic voice telling him he was a jammy devil. 'Simply a matter of finesse and delicacy, sir,' Llewellyn murmured under his breath as he got in the car. 'You should try it some time.' His shoulders slumped as he remembered that finesse and delicacy weren't working quite so well in other areas of his life.

He checked in his notebook for Thompson's exact address and set off, working out how best to repeat his success thus far. However, this repetition proved elusive as he soon discovered that Thompson had no neighbours. He got out of the car and walked round the perimeter of the cottage. There was not a sign of another house for half-a-mile in any direction. The loneliness of the location brought a return of the melancholy thoughts.

Too late, he realised he should never have let Rafferty talk him into agreeing to his mother coming for a visit while his relationship with Maureen was still so new. Of course Joseph Rafferty's enthusiasm for his own ideas had a way of carrying all before him. Besides, it had been a generous offer and it would have been churlish to turn him down.

Llewellyn felt sure of nothing but his own uncertainty. He'd never been in this situation before; a woman on either side pushing him and he wished he could find the courage to act forcefully.

Briefly, he wondered how Rafferty would deal with a similar situation and his unhappy expression lightened momentarily as he realised that Rafferty would undoubtedly start shouting, slam out and go up the pub; a simple outlook perhaps, but at least he would have done something, however pointless. Llewellyn felt incapable of doing anything at all. He longed for the boldness which he had always lacked in relationships, wished he could convince himself to act decisively, but too much thinking had always been his trouble.

He had already tried to ask Rafferty's advice once and had then thought better of it, but now he wondered whether he ought not try again? After all, the inspector had a reputation at the station as something of a ladies' man and if the canteen talk was true, he certainly had plenty of experience with women. There again, was it the right sort of experience?

Llewellyn's lips twisted at the thought that if he was truly considering asking Joseph Rafferty's advice about his love life he must be desperate; the inspector had a tendency to give advice first and think about its wisdom afterwards, if at all. Had he reached the point where he was desperate enough not just to ask for his advice, but to take it?

Conscious that a decision was as far away as ever, he forced his thoughts back to work matters. Reluctant to return to the station to report failure, he sat in the car for several more minutes, turning over what they already knew about the two men.

Out of all his old colleagues, Stubbs had kept in contact with only Thompson, his right-hand-man during the long drawn out rape investigation. Thompson had been transferred from Burleigh police station to Great Mannleigh after the collapse of the Smith trial and had remained there ever since.

Llewellyn wondered about the friendship between the two men. On the surface it was as unlikely a one as the growing bond between himself and Rafferty. Stubbs, very much the loner in every other respect but this one, self-contained and apparently self-sufficient and Thompson, also a widower as it happened, though a very recent one, was reported to be a much more outgoing character and was a regular at the police club in Great Mannleigh. The only tie likely to bring them together in such an unlikely friendship was their mutual bitterness over the Smith case.

Rafferty, with an ease Llewellyn couldn't help but envy, had tapped into the police grapevine with as little trouble as a bird tapped through the foil on a milk bottle. With a rude joke and the rough exchange of banter that Llewellyn knew he would never manage Rafferty had learned that, as they had suspected, Thompson's hopes of advancement had been continually blocked. The taint of the Smith case and the embarrassment it had caused his superiors had effectively removed the career ladder from Thompson's feet.

Such things happened, Llewellyn knew. It served no purpose to rage about their unfairness as Inspector Rafferty was inclined to do. They were both aware that a word here, a whisper there, were sufficient to bring a man's career to a standstill or to an abrupt end like that of Stubbs.

Unconsciously, Llewellyn echoed Rafferty's unspoken question: Why, if they had killed Smith should they act now? There was no reason, or none that they had been able to discover.

Thompson's wife had died in a road accident a few months ago certainly, but Smith hadn't been involved, they'd checked. Even the death of Stubbs's wife, which could be attributed indirectly to Smith, had happened years ago. So why act now?

Aware he was going round and round in circles, chasing his own tail in a way that Rafferty so often did, Llewellyn forced his mind to pause and consider. He remembered he had seen a pub a mile back along the road, presumably it was Thompson's local and he decided it might be worth paying it a visit.

From the outside, the pub looked for all the world as if it was designed to repel strangers. Small and scruffy, it appeared strictly a neighbourhood pub, which indicated the locals would be familiar with one another's routines.

After parking the car, he opened the pub door and was pleased to find that, inside, the pub wore a far more welcoming air. It was a real old-fashioned place and had a smell all its own, made up of some aromatic tobacco in the unlit pipe of one of the old men playing dominoes in the corner, hearty vegetable soup simmering its way to lunchtime from the kitchen behind the bar and the sharp tang of wood smoke curling from the fire. Tense earlier, Llewellyn found himself relaxing into the ambiance of the place.

The landlord was as welcoming as his pub and put his paper away and gave Llewellyn a warm smile and a 'What can I get you?' as he perched on the well-polished oak bar stool. Llewellyn was beginning to understand something of Rafferty's inclination to head for the nearest pub when life was proving difficult.

Llewellyn hesitated. Although teetotal and relatively unacquainted with pub rituals, he had learned enough during his time with Rafferty to be certain that the purchase of his usual orange juice or tonic water would be insufficient to encourage the landlord to gossip. As he ordered a pint of Elgoods, he sent up a silent prayer that Inspector Rafferty didn't somehow get to hear of it. For a man of his age and rank, Rafferty could be extraordinarily childish and would be sure to tease him unmercifully if he learned of his broken non-drinking vow.

'Not seen you in here before, sir,' the landlord commented. 'Just passing through?'

'That's right.' Llewellyn took a sip of his beer, surprised to discover that bitter was a misnomer. It was actually rather sweet and the feeling of distaste that had been building quickly waned. 'Attractive countryside round here. It must be delightful in the spring.'

'Tis that.' One of the old men in the corner spoke up. 'Very popular with young couples is this area.'

'It certainly appeals to me. Actually,' catching Rafferty's habit, he crossed his fingers against fate's revenge, even though the bulk of what he said was true. 'I'm hoping to marry soon and I was by this way last Thursday evening and noticed a cottage I thought might be ideal for my girlfriend and me. There was no For Sale sign, so I didn't knock and make enquiries — not that there were any lights visible. That's why I came back today, but there's still no one in. Perhaps you know it? It's about a mile up that way.' Llewellyn gestured with his thumb back the way he had come. 'It's set back from the road quite a way.'

'That'll be Harry Thompson's place,' the landlord told him. 'Doubt he'll sell, though. He'll not be there now. You should have knocked last time you passed it. He's generally at home on a Thursday night.' He turned to the old man who had spoken earlier. 'Doesn't he have that retired copper friend of his over on Thursday nights, Sid?'

'Ar. That's right. Two Thursdays out of the four, anyway. He's usually on duty the others.' Sid ambled over to the bar, stroking his unshaven chin. 'Though, now I come to think of it, the pair of them passed my place around eight last Thursday evening. Still weren't back when I walked by for me nightly pint at half-nine.' Sid sniggered. 'Maybe Harry fixed his mate up with a blind date.'

'Blind?' his friend in the corner echoed and commented, 'she'd need to be, and all. That mate of Harry's has a face on him that'd stop a clock. Miserable looking bugger.' The other men laughed.

'Maybe you should try coming back another time if you're that taken with the place,' the landlord suggested. 'Though, as I said, I doubt Harry will sell. He lost his wife a few months back so I shouldn't think he'd want the upheaval of moving just yet.'

Llewellyn nodded, pleased he had learned so much with so little time and effort. It meant he now had ample time to return to the station, pick up WPC Green and drive to Burleigh. Altogether it was turning out to be a very successful day and he spared a thought for Rafferty. Interviewing Massey, his ex-wife and daughter would be difficult, requiring a tact and delicacy that Rafferty rarely displayed. Llewellyn hoped he didn't make a hash of it. Apart from any other consideration, having the inspector stomping about the office in a foul temper was the last thing he needed right now.

'Another in there, Sid?' the landlord asked.

The old man was still at the bar clutching his empty pint pot, and Llewellyn, although unused to pub traditions, was quick to guess what was expected of him. 'Allow me,' he said and put a five pound note on the counter.

'Ta very much.' Sid smiled, exposing a mouth entirely innocent of teeth. 'Don't mind if I do.' He raised his replenished glass and saluted Llewellyn. 'You'll find the natives friendly hereabouts, young man, if you do move this way.'

'Aye.' The landlord laughed. 'Any man not afraid to put his hand in his pocket can be sure of a welcome from Sid at least.'

Reassured that there were still some areas of his life under his control, Llewellyn finished his drink, made his farewells to his new friends and returned to the station.

Liz Green was waiting for him and they wasted no time in heading for Burleigh and his interviews with the Dennington and Figg families. If only everything in life went as smoothly, was his pensive thought as he drove north.

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN