The Hanging Tree (Rafferty & Llewellyn British Mysteries, #4) E-Book

Geraldine Evans

• Herausgeber: Geraldine Evans
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The old crossroads used to run by here,' Sam told Rafferty. 'Legend has it that this was the original Hanging Tree.' The murder mystery of 'The Hanging Man', whose body disappears just before Christmas and then turns up again, suspended from the ancient 'Hanging Tree', has Essex Detective Joe Rafferty questioning his belief in justice and his own role in its pursuit. Rafferty knows he is expected to go after the murderer with as much vigor as he would any other killer. But he is in danger of becoming his own worse adversary as the victim was a man who escaped jail on a legal technicality after being accused of four child rapes. The case was a cause-célébre and caused much ill-feeling in Elmhurst's community. In this pollice procedural, Rafferty must battle against the inner conviction that Maurice Smith - a man who ruined more than just his young victims' lives - fully deserved to be murdered. He feels that if there is a self-appointed executioner at work, meting out his own form of justice on the legendary Hanging Tree, then Smith's 'executioner' is more to be lauded than condemned. Consequently, rather less than full of the Christmas Spirit as the Big Day approaches, Rafferty can only wish he hadn't opened his big mouth and invited his partner, Dafyd Llewellyn's mother to both his Ma's spare room and the Rafferty clan's festive meal. Because, from his own intuition and Llewellyn's ever more dour expression as his mother's arrival gets closer, he has reason to believe the wretched woman's visit is going to end in disaster. And not just for Llewellyn's burgeoning romantic relationship with Maureen. Rafferty fears he is about to become the Fall Guy twice over. Because he is only too aware that if he fails to find the murderer because of his own repugnance for the victim, he will also fail as a detective and his moral dilemma will give him no option but to resign. THE HANGING TREE is available in both e-book and paper editions. There are fifteen books in the Rafferty & Llewellyn series: Dead Before Morning #1 Down Among the Dead Men #2 Death Line #3 The Hanging Tree #4 Absolute Poison #5 Dying For You #6 Bad Blood #7 Love Lies Bleeding #8 Blood on the Bones #9 A Thrust to the Vitals #10 All the Lonely People #11 Death Dance #12 Death Dues #13 Deadly Reunion #14 Kith and Kill #15 Asking For It #16 The Spanish Connection #17 Game of Bones #18 WEBSITE/BLOG: https://geraldineevansbooks.com

Leseprobe

The Hanging Tree

A Rafferty & Llewellyn British Detective Series

Geraldine Evans

The Hanging Tree

Table of Contents

Blurb and Reviews

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

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The next novel in the series, Absolute Poison, is available. If you would like to read it, the author has included the first chapter for free. Happy reading!

ABSOLUTE POISON

Blurb and Reviews

Prologue

Chapter One

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Chapter One

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AUTHOR BIO

RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BRITISH MYSTERIES

OTHER WORKS

BRITISH ENGLISH USAGE AND SPELLING

Copyright

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Other Books by Geraldine Evans

BRITISH ENGLISH USAGE AND SPELLING

Table of Contents

Copyright

The Hanging Tree

Geraldine Evans

Copyright 1996 and 2011 Geraldine Evans

Discover other titles by Geraldine Evans at

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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people living or dead, locations or events is purely coincidental.

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Blurb and Reviews

The Hanging Tree

‘THE ORIGINAL CROSSROADS used to run by here,’ Sam told Rafferty. ‘Legend has it that this was the old Hanging Tree.’

When Inspector Rafferty first hears the report that a bound and hooded body has been seen hanging from a tree in Dedman Wood, he dismisses it as a schoolboy hoax, especially when police at the scene find nothing out of the ordinary.

But his anxiety rises sharply when the witness turns out to be a respectable local magistrate, who identifies the corpse as Maurice Smith, a man once accused of four child rapes. Thrown out on a legal technicality, Smith’s case had become a cause-celebre which had generated much ill-feeling within the community.

Rafferty and Sergeant Llewellyn visit Smith’s home—to discover he has mysteriously disappeared. And in his flat they find a threatening letter, and fresh bloodstains.

Then the body turns up again in the woods. Could there be a self-appointed executioner at work, meting out his own form of justice on the legendary Hanging Tree?

REVIEWS

Editorial

‘Great book! A wonderfully entertaining read. All the clues are there, set out honestly and fairly, yet the identity of the killer still comes as a surprise. I got one of those "of course - I should have known!" moments at the denouement. Crime writing at its best.' Writer James Gracie

Reader Reviews

‘Best book yet in a fantastic series.’ READER REVIEW

‘When Rafferty summarizes the case at the arrest, readers realize the clues to the killer’s identity were subtly planted all along. The case is fascinating, and the conclusion is very satisfying. I am looking forward to reading more of Geraldine Evans stories.’ READER REVIEWS

‘A good read in this series.’ READER REVIEWER

‘Loved it.’ READER REVIEWER

‘If you enjoy a thought provoking mystery without gore, I think you'd enjoy this one. It can stand alone however the series is exceptional.’ READER REVIEWER

‘The Hanging Tree won’t leave you hanging,’ READER REVIEWER

‘Clever twist in this tale.’ READER REVIEWER

‘An engrossing plot.’ READER REVIEWER

Chapter One

This novel used British English language and spelling, so if there are any words or phrases with which you are unfamiliar, there is a handy list in the back of the book.

IT WAS 10.00 P M AND Inspector Rafferty was thankful to finally be going home. The week before Christmas was not the best time of year from a policeman's point of view; Essex, in common with the rest of England’s densely-populated southern counties, had too many criminals with shopping lists of luxury items and a matching reluctance to pay for them. The combination had made his day long and tiring.

So he was inclined to snap when Constable Timothy Smales burst into his office, crashing the door back against the wall just as he was putting his coat on, and melodramatically exclaimed, 'It's gone, sir. Vanished. Lilley says—'

'Can't you open a door without smashing it off its hinges, man?' Rafferty demanded. 'What's the matter with you?'

Crestfallen, Smales said, 'Sorry, sir.'

'What's gone, anyway?' Rafferty asked.

'I thought you'd have heard by now, sir.' Smales's fallen crest was now on the rise again, and he came forward excitedly. 'A body was reported hanging in Dedman Wood. Only, as I said, when Lilley got there it had vanished, so—'

Rafferty was dismissive. 'Is that all?' Timothy Smales's schoolboy enthusiasm for corpses killed his small stock of common sense, and he made a mental note to put the young constable down for a few more post-mortems as a cure for the condition. 'Hardly reason to take the paint off my wall. It's another hoax, man. Have you forgotten it's the school holidays? Last week it was armed robberies—this week it's corpses. With a bit of luck, by next week, the bored local teenagers will be tormenting the fire brigade instead of us.'

Smales flushed but continued doggedly. 'It wasn't a kid that reported it, sir. It was a woman. According to Beard, a posh-sounding woman. Very adamant, she was. And she was there waiting for Lilley. Said she almost burned his ears off when he finally got to the scene. And another thing—Lilley said there were definite indications that a body had been hanging where she said.'

Rafferty, still keen to get home and put his feet up, wasn't easily moved from his opinion that the call had been a hoax. The world was full of attention-seekers who had forgotten to take their medication; a posh voice and a bossy manner didn't make his conclusions any less likely. Still, he reminded himself, callers intent on wasting police time didn't usually hang around for the police to arrive.

'Lilley said there were what looked like rope marks on one of the more sturdy boughs,' Smales went on. 'And the grass was flattened directly underneath it. A small tuft of rope was still clinging to the bough itself.'

'Could have been made by children with a tyre swing.' Rafferty still felt their witness would turn out to be less impressive in the flesh. But maybe he ought to look into it a little more deeply. Resignedly, he removed his coat, and indicated that Smales should continue.

'Constable Beard said the woman who reported it told him she was a magistrate from Burleigh.' Burleigh was in the north of the county, while Elmhurst was in the south, near the coast. 'A Mrs ffinch-Robinson. I can believe the magistrate bit and all, because Lilley said that when he got there, and the body had gone, she didn't half give him a ticking off. Seemed to think he should have got there sooner. Anyway, she said she'd be in to make a formal statement. She hadn't been drinking, either,' Smales added. 'Lilley made sure to smell her breath.'

Rafferty frowned. ffinch-Robinson. The name rang a bell. And from what Smales said she sounded both sane and sober. But if so, and she was telling the truth, what the devil had become of the body? If the cadaver was a suicide, as seemed likely, what reason would a third party have for removing it?

Having come up with no answers, he said, 'I want to see Lilley the second he gets back. And warn him he'd better make sure he can read his writing, because I shall want to know exactly what this Mrs ffinch-Robinson said to him. I'll need chapter and verse, because, by the sound of her, nothing but another corpse will satisfy her.' Pity we can't provide her with one, he muttered to himself.

***

MRS FFINCH-ROBINSON arrived at Elmhurst police station ten minutes later and was shown into Rafferty's office. She proved not only entirely sober and respectable, but less than understanding of the slow police response.

Rafferty did his best to soothe her ruffled magistrate's feathers. 'It's nearly Christmas, Mrs ffinch-Robinson. A very busy time for us and—'

'I understand that, Inspector. But I would have thought a report of a man's body hanging in the woods would take precedence over public house brawls.'

'Normally it would, of course. Unfortunately all the uniformed officers were out or otherwise engaged when your call came through. All I can say is that an officer was despatched in response to your call as soon as possible.'

Thankfully, Mrs ffinch-Robinson didn't pursue the complaint. But she had another that was equally sensitive. 'I suggest you speak to the young officer who finally arrived in response to my call, Inspector. I found his manner offensive. He not only had the effrontery to smell my breath as though he believed me to be drunk.' Briefly, Rafferty closed his eyes, surprised at Lilley's clumsiness; it was more the behaviour he had come to expect from young Smales. 'But he also warned me of the penalties for wasting police time—hardly conducive to good police-public relations, you must agree.'

As he gazed at Mrs ffinch-Robinson, perched, with all her ruffled magisterial dignity in his visitor's chair, Rafferty wished he hadn't sent Sergeant Dafyd Llewellyn out to soothe the latest victim of Elmhurst's Christmas-shopping criminal fraternity. He could do with his diplomatic skills here. He marvelled at Lilley's nerve. Pity his judgement wasn't so hot, because, from the top of her rather stylish Lincoln green, deerstalker hat, to her no-time-to-waste French pleated hair, through to her firmly corseted figure and practically shod feet in their brilliantly burnished tan boots, Mrs ffinch-Robinson proclaimed authority, sobriety and a total lack of hysteria. Her voice, as crisp as a Cox's Orange Pippin, was clear, precise, and as demanding of a policeman's respect as the rest of her. Hardly surprising, of course. As she had been at pains to explain, she was a magistrate.

Rafferty, earlier inclined to scoff at tales of vanishing cadavers, didn't doubt that she was telling the truth about the missing body. Apart from anything else, her statement hadn't varied by as much as a word from that taken down by Lilley. She had told them she was staying with her daughter and had taken the daughter's dog for a walk. It had been the dog who had led her to the corpse. All that was simple enough. But what she had to tell him next was more worrying and did little to reassure him that the next few days would be anything but difficult.

'I didn't say anything to that young officer,' she told Rafferty, 'as he didn't exactly inspire confidence that one would be believed, but I'm certain the corpse was that of a chap called Maurice Smith.'

Rafferty frowned as another bell rang. Now why did he recognise the name?

Mrs ffinch-Robinson's intelligent grey gaze noted his dilemma. 'His was something of a cause-célèbre about ten years ago. Maurice Smith was charged with raping four young girls. The case was dismissed on a legal technicality on the first day of the trial.' Her firmly chiselled nostrils quivered her disdain for such legal bumbling. 'One of his victims killed herself when Smith was released. As you can imagine, the victims' families were outraged, and made various threats against Smith.'

Rafferty nodded. Details of the case were slowly coming back. He seemed to remember that, of the families that Mrs ffinch-Robinson mentioned, one had done more than threaten. The father had waylaid Smith and given him one hell of a beating, receiving a prison sentence for his pains. 'Excuse me, Mrs ffinch-Robinson, but how did you recognise him? After all, it's ten years since—'

Mrs ffinch-Robinson interrupted him. 'Smith used to live in Burleigh which is where I sit on the bench, and he had come up before me in the Magistrates' Court on several occasions in his teens. His front teeth protruded quite dreadfully. Extraordinary the parents didn't get them seen to, though, of course, the mother was one of those spiritless women you could advise till you were blue in the face. Anyway, the teeth of the corpse were exactly the same. That's why I recognised him. He'd changed very little in other respects, too. There is no doubt in my mind that it was Smith. None at all.'

Reluctant to seem to doubt her, Rafferty still needed to question her further. 'Pardon me, but I thought you said he had a hood over his head when you found him, Mrs ffinch-Robinson?'

Although she looked a little put out that he had detected a flaw in her statement, she answered promptly enough. 'So he did. I didn't touch anything, if that's what you're implying. I didn't have to, as the wind must have got under the hood, and it was half off. Naturally, I shone my torch on his face. You should be grateful I did, Inspector.' The Cox's Orange Pippin in her voice became crisper than ever. 'At least you know the body's identity, even if it has gone missing.' She gave him a stern, magisterial, smile. 'Now all you have to do is find it.' She paused before adding, 'and his murderer, of course.'

***

AFTER MRS FFINCH-ROBINSON left, Rafferty checked Smith's history. A colleague at Burleigh, as long on the job as himself, was able to confirm all that Mrs ffinch-Robinson had said and more, and it was a pensive Rafferty who called Llewellyn in on his return and explained what had happened in his absence.

'You believe her?' Llewellyn asked.

With a wry smile, Rafferty nodded. 'I think we can take it that Mrs ffinch-Robinson wasn't hallucinating. She's a magistrate, no less, and the type to take Harrods trips, not LDS ones.'

'No chance it might be a suicide? After the shock of finding a body, even magistrates can get their facts wrong. It was dark, remember.'

'No chance at all I should think,' Rafferty told him. ‘And she had a torch.’ Of course, Llewellyn hadn't met Mrs ffinch-Robinson, he reminded himself. 'According to the witness, the body not only had that hood over his head, but his hands were also bound behind his back. No, I'm convinced she was telling the plain, unvarnished truth.'

He wished he could say otherwise. Mrs ffinch-Robinson would make a wonderful showing in the witness box—confident, firm, and not to be swayed by the defence counsel's tricks. But first, as she had mentioned, they had not only to find the body, they had also to catch the murderer—without him, their star turn would remain off-stage, probably giving the producer hell from the wings.

After speaking to his Burleigh colleague, Rafferty had done some more digging, and now he filled Llewellyn in on the rest. 'Smith moved from Burleigh to Rawston after the aborted rape trial. From there, after a new neighbour recognised him, he moved here, where, I gather, he's lived for two years. If this missing cadaver does turn out to be Maurice Smith, I very much fear someone's been acting as judge, jury and Albert Pierrepoint, the old hangman.'

Was there anything more worrying to a policeman than the public taking the law into its own hands? Yet, at the same time, he was aware of a degree of sympathy with such action. Particularly in cases like Smith's, where justice was not only not done, but seen not to be done.

Becoming aware of Llewellyn's expectant gaze, he straightened his shoulders, firmed up his spine, and said, 'First, we'd better check that he is missing. Send Smales round to his home, Dafyd. Here's the address. And for God's sake, tell him to be discreet. Smith's living under the name of Martin Smithson. Tell Smales to make sure he asks for him under that name. When you've done that, I want you to contact Smith's family. Find out when they last saw him or heard from him. I'm sure I don't need to tell you to be discreet. As for me and Lilley, we're going to Dedman Wood to take a look at the scene.'

Llewellyn nodded and departed. Rafferty opened his door and shouted for Lilley, and when the young officer appeared, told him, 'We're going out to Dedman Woods. I want to have a look for myself.'

It was now getting on for 11 o'clock, and Rafferty, cheated of his early night, was in just the right mood for issuing Mrs ffinch-Robinson's advised rebuke. After he had shrugged into his coat, he said tersely, 'And next time an obviously sober citizen like Mrs ffinch-Robinson reports finding a body, please try not to get their back up. Apart from anything else, it offends against Superintendent Bradley's favourite pet project: “Politeness in Interaction with Members of the Public.”' Rafferty always made sure to mention it whenever one of the younger officers offended against the programme. He felt he had to do his bit to keep it alive, especially as the super had tried to smother it after finally sussing the PIMP acronym that Rafferty had gladly suggested for the programme. 'You know how fond of it he is. You wouldn't like him to get to hear of your doings, I'm sure.'

Lilley's blond complexion went a little paler, and he shook his head. It was well known that Bradley threw himself into a towering rage whenever anyone breached his Politeness Programme, though few realised the reason why.

As, by now, Lilley was staring at his boots, he didn't notice Rafferty's lips twitch. 'Sorry, sir. Won't happen again, sir.'

'See that it doesn't. Admittedly, you're not likely to have too many truly disappearing cadavers in your career. But if you treat important witnesses like Mrs ffinch-Robinson in such a cavalier fashion, your career's likely to be short. Remember that.'

Rebuke over, Rafferty shut his door behind them. And with Lilley’s back safely towards him, he allowed himself a full-scale grin. Even at the end of a long day that promised to wipe the smile off his face, the PIMP episode had the power to amuse. Several months ago, he had got away with supplying the apt acronym for "Long-Pockets" Bradley's latest attempt to enhance his status at Region with the immoral, penny-pinching, 'Politeness costs nothing' scam. When Bradley had finally woken up to it, Rafferty had succeeded in convincing him that, not only had his suggestion been made in all innocence, but that Region would be less than impressed if he dropped his wool-over-the-public's-eyes wheeze when he had spent so much time and money on its promotion. So Bradley had been stuck with it.

Warmed by the memory, Rafferty’s step, as he followed Lilley out to the car park, was jauntier than it had any right to be.

***

'MAURICE SMITH'S FAMILY say they haven't seen him since yesterday evening,' Llewellyn reported, when Rafferty got back to the station after examining the scene. It had been as Lilley had described, even down to the rope tuft. Rafferty nodded glumly, doubts and amusement both, already fading.

'And, as far as they know, he had no travel plans. From what they say, he's something of a loner, and rarely went out or socialised. He had no friends, as far as they're aware. They said they don't see much of him themselves, though I got the impression they don't exactly extend a hearty welcome when he does visit.'

'Understandable,' Rafferty commented. 'He must have put them through hell one way and another. Still,' he continued, uneasily, 'if Mrs ffinch-Robinson is right, and it was Maurice Smith's body she saw, then this case could have some very awkward connotations. If he's been killed by the family of one of his victims, then public sympathy for them will make our job extremely difficult. Nobody will co-operate. Nobody will answer our questions, and our chances of catching his killer could be zilch.'

Rafferty, his attitude towards the victim still ambivalent, wasn't sure that wouldn't be the best result. From his understanding of the case, Smith had ruined enough lives; dead, he wouldn't have the chance to ruin more. But aware that the high-moral ground Welshman would be unlikely to share his opinion, he kept it to himself. Llewellyn believed that, whatever the provocation, no one had the right to take the law into their own hands.

Increasingly, these days, Rafferty found his own beliefs wavering. The man, rather than the policeman, thought that ultimately, every human being was responsible for their own survival, and that of their family. If parliament and the courts, who were supposed to protect the law-abiding, failed in their responsibility, what was the honest citizen to do? Cower in a corner and let the barbarians do what they liked?

Society had been overwhelmed by crime in recent years; like a flood tide, it poured over their homes, their schools, their neighbourhoods, tainting every aspect of life. The courts issued what he and many other people considered to be futile punishments to the perpetrators, when they punished them at all. Young criminals, in particular, laughed at the law. Without majesty, dignity and a strong right arm, the law deserved to be laughed at for the joke it had become. Lately, he had often thought that the Old Bailey, the Central Criminal Court and the absolute embodiment of justice in Britain, should be crowned with "Crime Rools OK" graffiti, rather than the bronze Justice statue.

With a tired sigh, he forced such thoughts to the back of his mind and asked how Smales had got on.

'He was unable to get a reply from either Mr Smith or his landlady,' Llewellyn told him. 'And as he was anxious about your warning on discretion, he thought better of asking amongst the neighbours. I told him to return to the station. I hope that's all right?'

'Yes. It's getting late, too late for banging on doors and disturbing people. We'll go ourselves in the morning. For the moment, I want to keep this low-key. I know Mrs ffinch-Robinson was convinced the corpse was Smith's, but it's possible she made a mistake. Time enough to turn up the volume if Smith has vanished.'

In spite of his forced optimism, Rafferty wished he could get out of his mind the conviction that the Mrs ffinch-Robinsons of this world were pretty well infallible. Such thoughts were, he felt sure, guaranteed to give him a sleepless night.

Chapter Two

ON FRIDAY MORNING RAFFERTY and Llewellyn drove to Maurice Smith's flat. He lived in an Edwardian terraced house, a once-family home that had seen better days and had long been converted to separate dwellings. Smith's home was on the first floor, above the landlady, Mrs Penny's, flat. There was an unlocked outside door, and, inside this, the two flats each had their own doors with letterboxes and secondary bells. Rafferty noticed that Smith's door had a spyhole, an amateur effort which he had probably made himself.

After getting no answer from Smith, Rafferty tried the landlady's bell. But there was no answer there either, and he suggested they have a look round the back.

A six-foot double wooden gate concealed concrete hard-standing. Rafferty frowned as he saw the lock on the gate had been forced. 'Looks very recent,' he observed as he examined the bright wood around the lock. As well as the broken gate lock, when they walked up the back path they found a few threads of navy cotton clinging to the fire escape. According to Mrs ffinch-Robinson, the corpse she had found had been wearing a navy and maroon tracksuit. After he drew Llewellyn's attention to the threads Rafferty sealed them in a plastic bag without further comment.

He was beginning to feel he should have posted an officer in Dedman Wood last night to secure the scene. But it was too late for that now, and he consoled himself with the thought that there could be few enough people choosing to walk in the woods after dark, particularly in the depths of winter. Anyway, on the way out this morning, he had instructed Lilley to stand guard duty at the scene, and with such a belated effort he had to be content. After all, with no corpse, they couldn't be sure they had a murder on their hands and, until they were sure, he didn't want to alert the press by putting a uniform at the scene. As plain-clothes, Lilley could hang about without inviting speculation.

They found nothing else and came back to the front of the property. Mrs Penny had still not returned, but, determined to get some answers, Rafferty decided they would wait. There was a baker's on the corner, and he sent Llewellyn over to get coffee, which they drank sitting in the car.

The baker's had a three-tiered wedding cake in the window. It turned Rafferty's mind to other things than Smith. Llewellyn had been strongly courting Rafferty's second cousin, Maureen, since the previous April, and, from various remarks that Llewellyn had made, Rafferty had got the impression that an announcement was imminent. But several months had gone by and no announcement had been made. Now, glancing at Llewellyn he asked, 'So, how's the love life? Popped the question yet?'

Beside him, Llewellyn stiffened. 'We have only known one another for a little over six months, you know. Matrimony is too important a step to rush into.'

'And faint hearts never won fair lady,' Rafferty reminded him. 'What's the matter? Getting cold feet?'

Llewellyn said nothing, and Rafferty, who had changed his tune and would himself like nothing more than a spot of connubial bliss, commented tartly, 'If I know you, you'll be saying the same in six years. You do love each other, I take it?' They'd certainly looked moony-eyed enough to Rafferty on the occasions he'd seen them together.

Llewellyn forced a 'yes' out.

'There you are, then.'

Of course, the Welshman couldn't help being the way he was, Rafferty reminded himself. His background as a Welsh Methodist minister's only son was hardly guaranteed to turn him into a young Lochinvar. What Llewellyn needed was an agony uncle, he decided. Or a boot up the backside. Or both.

He plumped for the gentle approach. 'So, what seems to be the problem?' he asked, in his best bedside manner. 'You've got heaps in common, you love each other fit to bust. What else is holding you up?'

Llewellyn hesitated, then confided, 'I want her to go up to Wales with me to meet my mother. Just a short visit, over a weekend.'

'And Maureen won't go, I take it?'

Llewellyn nodded glumly. 'She said she has no intention of being paraded around my home village like a prize cow.'

Rafferty spluttered into his coffee, and muttered to himself, 'That sounds like Maureen.' He thought for a moment, then said brightly, 'So, if the prize cow won't go to the cattle show, what you've got to do is hold the show down here and let Daisy parade only for the prospective purchaser rather than the non-spending gawpers.'

'I wish you wouldn't keep referring to her as—'

Rafferty held up his hand. 'All right. Sorry. It's a good idea, though, isn't it? Isn't it?' he repeated, when Llewellyn failed to respond.

'It would be if it didn't have several drawbacks, which was the reason I didn't suggest it. For one, my flat's too small. Of course my mother could stay with Maureen's mother, but—'

'Exactly—but.'

Maureen's mother was a difficult woman. No, Rafferty thought, scrub that. She was bloody impossible; all airs and graces and condescension; starched tablecloths and starched pillows cases. Starched knickers, too, probably. 'Your mother wouldn't stay in a hotel, I suppose?'

'I wouldn't ask it of her. Hotels can be lonely places. And she's lived a very quiet life.' He glanced quickly at Rafferty. 'You'll probably find this amusing, but she still hasn't got a television set.'

Rafferty didn't find it funny at all. In a sudden burst of generosity, he found himself saying, 'She could stay with Ma. She's got plenty of room.'

Rafferty, always convinced his ideas were excellent until events proved otherwise, pushed this one with his usual enthusiasm. Ignoring the doubtful look in Llewellyn's eye, he said, 'It's the perfect solution, Daff. They're both widows, both alone, it'd be welcome company for both of them. At least let me put it to Ma.'

Llewellyn's old-fashioned look made Rafferty re-examine his initial enthusiasm. Perhaps volunteering Ma and her best spare room wasn't such an inspired notion, after all. If Llewellyn's childhood had been even half as dreary as Rafferty suspected, his mother must be a dour old biddy, as narrow in outlook as his Ma was broad.

But he realised he had talked Llewellyn into it when the Welshman suddenly asked, 'You're sure Mrs Rafferty won't mind?'

'Sure I'm sure.' Rafferty gave a bright smile, and added, 'she'll love it.'

Rafferty's Ma had taken even more of a proprietary interest in the romance than Rafferty and was well on the way to persuading Llewellyn to convert to Catholicism. Rafferty consoled himself with the thought that it would only be for a week or so. Just while Mrs Llewellyn looked 'Daisy' over. He'd have to ensure he made that clear. 'I'll ask her tonight,' he told Llewellyn. 'And then you can sort the details out between yourselves.'

It seemed Llewellyn, too, had a few reservations, for he said quickly, 'Perhaps it would be best to make the invitation for after Christmas? I'm sure your mother will be far too busy to want to entertain strangers then.'

'Good idea.' Christmas at Ma's house was normally riotous. Not suitable for an old-fashioned Methodist matron, who was likely to be long on sin and short on forgiveness. Not suitable at all.

Though, the more Rafferty thought about it, the more he realised there were few periods in the year when the visit wouldn't turn out to be an unmitigated disaster. Why don't I keep my big mouth shut? It'll all end in tears, I know it will. Probably mine.

He pushed his gloomy conclusions aside as he saw a comfortably built woman in her seventies walking towards them, a well-filled shopping trolley pushed before her. 'Want to bet that's Smith's landlady?'

Not being a betting man, Llewellyn didn't take him up on his offer. But Rafferty's guess was borne out when she stopped at the front door and pulled out a key.

They got out of the car. Rafferty, careful not to startle her, took his warrant card from his pocket, and softly called her name. As she turned, he held the card up and slowly approached.

'We're police officers. You are Mrs Penny?' She nodded, and Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn. 'I wonder, could we have a word? It's about your lodger.'

'About Ma-Martin?' She studied them anxiously before asking, 'Why? Whatever has he done?'

'He hasn't done anything,' Rafferty hastened to reassure her. At least not lately, he silently amended. 'We just need to speak to him, but as he isn't home...'

She hesitated, then said, 'You'd better come in.'

Mrs Penny's living room was homely; comfortable, if over-furnished, with masses of family photographs dotted about. Her face creased in anxiety as, after she had sat them down, she said, 'You're sure he's not in any sort of trouble?'

'No.' Rafferty paused, and added, 'that is, not exactly. As I said, we just wanted to speak to him. Actually, one of my officers called round yesterday evening,' Rafferty told her. 'But he could get no reply at either Mr Smithson's flat or yours. Of course, it was rather late.'

In spite of her obvious anxiety about her lodger, Mrs Penny managed a tiny smile. 'Isn't that always the way? Last night was the first evening I've been out in four months. Went to a WRAF's reunion at a local hotel. It was after midnight before I got home. Haven't had such a good time since I don't know when.'

The houses on either side were also multi-occupancy, she told them, but their landlords, unlike her, didn't live on the premises, and the tenants were mostly young, and tended to come and go. She had been widowed two years earlier, and nowadays, she rarely saw anyone unless she went out and, apart from shopping, that happened seldom. 'But here am I forgetting my manners. Let me make some tea.'

She bustled into the kitchen and was soon plying them with such quantities of tea, home-made sponge cake and biscuits, that it wasn't hard to guess the extent of her loneliness.

As she sat down, Rafferty explained that her lodger had been reported missing. He judged that was the safest way to describe the peculiar events of yesterday. 'There are certain—aspects that warrant further investigation.'

Her wide brow creased as she returned to his previous answer. 'But who would report him missing? He has no friends, and although he saw his family on Wednesday evening, that's the first time he's seen them in weeks.' Her warm gaze was sad. 'His mother died some years ago, and he doesn't really get on with his step-father and half-brother. From odd things he's said, I gather they don't encourage his visits. I don't know why he bothers. Still, I suppose they're the only family he's got. But, in reality, I'm probably the nearest thing he's got to true friend and family both, and I certainly haven't reported him missing.' She eyed them shrewdly. 'So who has?'

'I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mrs Penny,' Rafferty replied. 'I can only say again that the person who did so is very respectable, very responsible, and wouldn't make such a report without being pretty sure of the facts.'

Her expression anxious, she told them, 'You know, now you mention it, I haven't heard him at all this morning, and he's generally an early riser. Usually, I hear him moving about. Wednesday evening he was pacing up and down as though he had something on his mind; it went on till the early hours. Yesterday evening was the same—at least until I went out. It worried me to leave him all alone when he was so obviously troubled. I had half a mind to stay home after all, but Martin wouldn't hear of it. He wouldn't tell me what the problem was either, and I couldn't force him.'

She sighed heavily. 'And now you tell me he's missing. I hope he hasn't done anything silly.' Her warm brown gaze rested steadily on Rafferty's face. 'You know his real identity, I take it?'

Rafferty nodded, surprised that she should be aware of it and still let Smith remain in her home.

She explained, 'He told me his real identity a couple of months after he moved in. He knew from the Social that I was on the list of those prepared to offer a home to men like him. I suppose he felt he could confide in me.' She sighed again. 'I do wish he'd told me what's been worrying him this last day or two.'

'You weren't concerned when he told you of his background?' Rafferty asked.

'I'm seventy-six, Inspector,' she told him calmly. 'An age I thought unlikely to rouse Maurice's anti-social urges. I felt sorry for him. He was—is,' determinedly she corrected herself, as though unwilling to accept the possibility that her lodger might be dead, 'a pretty sad young man; plain, awkward, lacking any social graces. He desperately needed someone to talk to, someone to take an interest in him. I don't think anyone else ever did. Of course, with most people, his appearance and diffident manner went against him.'

She studied them for a moment, as though weighing them up, before confiding, 'My son had a similar problem to Maurice. My Alan committed suicide when he was twenty-eight because he hated himself so much. No-one seemed able to help him. He served a prison sentence for assaulting one young girl. He had an awful time there, and was terrified he would weaken, attack another young girl, and get sent back. He was ashamed of what he'd done, but he told me when he got these urges they seemed to take him over.' In her lap, her hands gripped each other tightly. 'I think, in the end, he felt he could no longer cope with all the emotions raging inside him, so—he destroyed himself. He felt it was his only choice. I thought...'

She bit her lip. 'I thought I might be able to help Maurice, where I'd failed to help my son, prevent the same thing happening to him as happened to my boy. They can control those sort of sexual compulsions nowadays, can't they? Only—' she faltered. 'Only nobody seems terribly bothered to do so. I knew Maurice confessed to the police. He expected to be put away, to get help. Only he wasn't, and he didn't.' Abruptly, she got up. Rafferty guessed the memories of her son were too painful, too full of self-blame, and thoughts of if-only, for her to wish to dwell on them. 'You'll want the key to his room.'

'Thank you.' Rafferty paused. 'I gather Maurice Smith's been here about two years now?'

She nodded, and as she handed over the key, asked, 'You won't disturb things too much? Only he'll be upset if I have to tell him you've been going through his things. He can be very secretive.'

Rafferty reassured her. 'Have you any idea what he was wearing yesterday evening? It would help our enquiries to know.'

She nodded. 'He was wearing a navy and maroon tracksuit.'

Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged glances.

Mrs Penny hadn't missed the exchange. In a shaky voice, she added, 'He was wearing it when I went up to say goodbye at seven-thirty.' She hurried on as if reluctant to enquire further as to what significance they placed on the tracksuit.

‘He preferred such clothes to shirts and proper trousers. Didn't show the dirt and saved ironing, he said, though I'd have willingly done his laundry for him, and his cleaning, if he'd let me. But, as I said, in many ways he was a very private person, and he was wary about getting too close. He didn't like letting anyone in his room; he told me he'd had threats made against him in the past. He always kept his front door on a chain, and never released it till he had checked his caller's identity through that spyhole he drilled in his door.'

She paused, and, eyes clouding with anxiety, she added, 'The jogging suit should be in his laundry basket. He always went to the laundrette on Thursday nights.' Obviously, even without their confirmation, she had concluded for herself that this tracksuit was important, for before turning away, she added, 'I hope you find it.'

So did Rafferty.

Chapter Three

RAFFERTY PUT THE KEY in the lock and opened the door to Maurice Smith's flat. Though 'flat' was a grand name for what was little more than a large bedsit, with cubbyhole kitchen and tiny bathroom. Bathroom was another misnomer, as there was no bath, merely a shower cubicle and a grubby toilet. He wondered why Smith hadn't taken Mrs Penny up on her offer to do his cleaning, because it was obvious he didn't trouble with such chores himself. The place was filthy, with the sour odour of unwashed sheets, discarded food and rarely opened windows.

Rafferty was about to make a derogatory comment on Smith's slovenly housekeeping, when a fleeting picture of his own bathroom with its less than sparkling white tiling made him think better of it. But, he persuaded himself, his bathroom did not the man make. Obviously other habits had far more bearing on character. He checked through the laundry basket. Though it had several items of dirty clothing, the navy and maroon tracksuit wasn't amongst them.

With downturned lips, Llewellyn surveyed the room: from its leaning tower of yellowing newspapers, to the unmade bed with its soiled grey sheets, to the mismatched crockery piled in the kitchen sink. 'Tidy chap, wasn't he?' he commented, his words revealing that he not only shared Rafferty's distaste for Smith's sluttish housewifery, but also the growing conviction that Smith was dead.