The Hanging Tree Read online

  To his annoyance, he arrived too late for the interval and the doorman, a self-important Jobsworth, refused to let him wait backstage.

  'Can't do that,' he was told, as, with arms folded over the brown overall, Jobsworth's tiny, piggy-pink eyes subjected him to a top-to-toe examination. Rafferty realised he'd failed the test when Jobsworth told him tartly, 'Get too many so-called theatre lovers back here already. Light-fingered the lot of them. Now I don't let nobody back here unless they're vouched for. More than my job's worth. You got anybody to vouch for you?'

  Rafferty rallied and whipped out his warrant card. 'Only the Essex Police Service.'

  Jobsworth nodded sagely, as if he'd suspected as much. It soon became clear he had no higher opinion of police honesty than he did of the theatre lovers’.

  'Had some of your lot in here last week,' he informed Rafferty. He sniffed and looked down his nose. 'Unruly bunch. Discovered my spare uniform cap was missing after they’d left. You can be sure I'll do my best to make certain they can never hire this hall again.'

  Rafferty gave up and conceded victory to Jobsworth. Resigned to either waiting in the car or sitting to watch the play, he realised that if he didn't want to risk missing Elizabeth Probyn altogether, he'd have to do the latter.

  The hall was packed. He spotted one empty seat halfway down a row on the right-hand side. Accompanied by tuts from the theatre-lovers, he crept towards his seat, throwing apologies left and right as he stumbled over feet. Subsiding into his chair with a sigh of relief, he squinted at his neighbour's programme.

  As Llewellyn had reminded him, they were doing Macbeth, the play that dare not speak its name and he stifled another sigh. For although he had never seen the play, he'd heard enough about it to know that it contained plenty of blood and gore; just what he needed in the middle of a murder inquiry.

  He gazed up at the stage, but under the actors' wigs, costumes and stage make up, he couldn't pick out Elizabeth Probyn. Eventually, after another sideways sneak at his neighbour's programme, he twigged that she was playing Lady Macbeth, whose character had already committed suicide. Thank God for that, anyway, Rafferty thought. Steeling himself for further tuts and muttered, 'Well, really’s!' of the usual British theatre audience, he got up and made for the door, dispensing more apologies as he went.

  Luckily, Jobsworth had taken himself off to be obnoxious elsewhere and Rafferty had no trouble finding the dressing room of the female members of the cast. He knocked on the door and Elizabeth Probyn opened it. Surprisingly, she was alone. Unsurprisingly, she didn't seem pleased to see him.

  'I didn't have you down as a theatre lover, Inspector,' she coolly commented as she turned back to the mirror and sat down. 'Did Sergeant Llewellyn bring you?'

  'No.' Irritated by the implication, especially as it was true, that he'd have to be brought to culture like a horse to water, he instantly bridled and then checked himself. 'He gave me the tickets though.’ He forced an unwilling grin. He knows I'm a sucker for culture.'

  'Really?'

  Too late, he realised he had laid himself open to an enquiry as to why such a self-proclaimed culture-vulture would voluntarily abandon the last part of the play. Fortunately, if she had the impulse to ask such an awkward question she managed to control it and simply resumed collecting various tubes and jars and packing them away in a bag.

  'You're here on an autograph hunt, perhaps?' she dryly suggested. 'Or did you just want to congratulate me on my performance?'

  'What?' Rafferty stared at her. 'Oh. Yes. Sorry.' Not having actually witnessed her performance, he judged it tactful to lie and hope she wouldn't question him. 'You were very good. Actually,' he began, 'I wanted to speak to you about another matter.' He paused, unsure how to go on, and only too aware of her prickly personality. He had always seemed to have the knack of rubbing her up the wrong way and, given the subject matter, this meeting was even more likely to follow the usual wrong-rubbing course than most of their previous ones.

  'Another matter?' she encouraged.

  'Er, yes.' Maybe I should have let Llewellyn tackle this one after all, he thought, and be blowed to professional courtesy. But it was too late now, so, taking a deep breath, he blundered on. 'We've just heard that Frank Massey, one of the suspects in the Smith murder case, has done a runner.'

  In the mirror, her eyebrows rose and Rafferty deduced from her expression that she had guessed why he was here and wasn't going to make it easy for him. 'So? What has that to do with me?'

  ‘His ex-wife told us you and Massey had been quite close at one time and had recently become reacquainted. I wondered–'

  She didn't give him time to finish. 'You wondered whether I might know where he had gone? Really, Inspector, the implication of that leaves me quite breathless. Let me assure you that I remember my position and the responsibilities it carries even if you do not.'

  'I'm sorry. But you must see that I had to ask?'

  She dropped the make-up bag and turned to face him. 'Why? In case I still carried a torch for my first love, you mean?' The idea seemed to amuse her, for she gave a twisted smile. 'What a romantic heart you must have, Inspector Rafferty. I'd never have guessed. I wish I could help you, but I have no idea where Frank Massey is. He didn't confide in me. He certainly didn't ask for my help.' She turned back to the mirror and consulted the watch sitting on the table. 'Now, is that all? Because I'm due to go and take the curtain call with the rest of the cast.'

  He had little choice but to accept his dismissal. Anyway, he was inclined to believe she was telling the truth. What would a woman like Elizabeth Probyn want with a wreck like Massey? She would, he told himself, probably despise him even more than she does me.

  Still, he had a feeling she was keeping something back, something that perhaps she didn't consider important enough or sufficiently relevant to mention. The trouble was, he doubted she would be co-operative if he were to question her further now. Pausing at the door, he nevertheless made a tentative attempt to encourage her confidences.

  'If you should happen to think of anything, anything at all that might help us, I'd be grateful. Whether it concerns Frank Massey's long-forgotten haunts, any long-lost friends he might have in foreign places, or anything else.'

  She inclined her head imperiously, as though she were still in the role of Lady Macbeth. 'As I said before, Inspector, I wish I could help you. I really do. Naturally, if anything occurs to me, I'll contact you.'

  She adjusted her queenly headdress and softly added, 'What a pity the police didn't do their job properly all those years ago. I know that, inexperienced as I was, ex-Inspector Stubbs thought he could lay all the blame at my door for the failure to secure a conviction. He certainly tried his best to do so.

  'But if he hadn't botched Smith's interview in the first place, he'd wouldn't have had to look round for a scapegoat in an attempt to salvage his career and he'd have saved everyone a lot of grief into the bargain; the victims who came forward as well as the one who didn't; Frank Massey, who wouldn't now be on the run; you, who would avoid the embarrassment of asking me insulting questions; and me, who'd be saved the indignity of answering them.'

  Touché, thought Rafferty. Thankfully, the ringing of his mobile phone saved him from ignominious dismissal and gave him the excuse he was looking for to make a more dignified escape. Waving the ringing phone at her stiff, mirrored face, he decamped into the corridor only to find Jobsworth bearing down on him.

  It was Llewellyn on the phone. They'd found Massey's car. It had been abandoned in the port town of Harwich.

  'Harwich,' Rafferty muttered. He scowled as he strained to hear Llewellyn over Jobsworth's loud reproaches. 'Whose ferries operate from there?'

  'I've checked,' Llewellyn told him. 'Sealink and Scandinavian Ferries both run services from there; Sealink to the Hook of Holland and the Scandinavian line to Esbjerg and Gothenburg.'

  'Could be he's headed somewhere else altogether. Left the car at Harwich to fool us and took a train to Portsmouth
, Dover, New Haven, Felixstowe or some other sea or airport. He could still be just about anywhere.'

  'I gather Ms Probyn wasn't able to help you then?'

  Rafferty grimaced. His answer was brief and to the point. 'I'll be back there in five minutes. You've spoken to the ferry staff?'

  Llewellyn confirmed it. 'None of those we've so far been able to question noticed a single man fitting Massey's description. Of course, they're busy at this time of the year and I don't imagine they had time to notice individuals, anyway.'

  'All we can do is keep plugging.' He paused and tried to wave Jobsworth away. Apart from the oddness of Smith letting Massey into his flat at all, there was still another question he remembered that had yet to be answered. Hopefully, he asked it. 'I don't suppose that neighbour of Smith's has found the note with the registration number of that Zephyr yet?'

  He supposed right.

  'No. I rang him earlier. A Christmas party was obviously in full swing though, so I doubt either he or his wife have tried too hard.'

  Rafferty swore. 'What's the matter with the bloody man? Surely he realises how important that piece of paper could be? Get onto him again, Dafyd. Put the fear of God into him if you have to, but make him promise to have a thorough look for it first thing tomorrow morning.'

  Llewellyn said he'd try and with that Rafferty had to be content, though putting the fear of God into anyone wasn't exactly the Welshman's strong suit.

  He broke the connection, put his face close up against the still expostulating Jobsworth and muttered a few choice Anglo-Saxon expletives before he strode out to the car park and got in his car, his only satisfaction the fact that he'd managed to miss the bulk of the wretched play.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Christmas Eve dawned with a hard frost and when Rafferty went out to start his car, he found he'd not only neglected to cover the screen, but had also used the last of his de-icer. Cursing, he set to scraping the glass, bruising his knuckles in the process. Few of his neighbours had stirred, he noticed. Lucky devils had probably already started their holiday.

  The thought made him realise that they probably wouldn't be the only ones putting their feet up. The search for Frank Massey might as well go on hold, he thought, for all the chance they'd have of finding him over the Christmas period. Policemen, too, liked to put their feet up; somehow he doubted his continental opposite numbers would stir out of their warm stations in any numbers for anything less than a full-scale riot.

  Anyway, he reminded himself, just because Frank Massey had lied to them and then taken off, it didn't automatically make him guilty of murder; stupidity yes, blind panic yes, murder — not necessarily.

  Massey had not done his time at an open prison; his had not been a white-collar crime and the cushy billets were mostly reserved for crooked accountants, bent city whizz-kids and the like. Instead, cultured, sensitive Frank Massey had spent his time with the violent criminals, rapists, murderers, pimps and pushers.

  Rafferty needed to do no more than recall the haunted look in Massey's eyes when he'd introduced himself and revealed the reason for his visit to know what he must have suffered. Even eight years had evidently not been long enough to dim the memory. He'd have been picked out as a soft target practically on his arrival; a natural victim.

  Rafferty found it hard to believe that Massey would be willing to risk a repeat of the experience. Earlier, he'd concluded that the only thing that would make him take the risk would be if his daughter had pleaded for his help; then, he might be prepared to sacrifice himself. But they were pretty sure now that she had had nothing to do with Smith's murder.

  When his car had finally slid its way to the office, he was dragged away from his internal arguments by Llewellyn, who remarked that whether Massey was a murderer or just a fool, they still had other suspects to keep them busy while the hunt for Massey continued.

  'True,' Rafferty admitted. 'And no leads for any of them.' He shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets. Something rustled in the left-hand side one, and idly, he pulled out the piece of paper.

  It was Mrs ffinch-Robinson's list of poachers, he discovered and a guilty dart pricked his conscience. Like Llewellyn's unwanted and unasked-for tickets for Shakespeare, he had appeased Mrs ffinch-Robinson by the simple expedient of shoving her list in his pocket and forgetting about it.

  'What's that?' Llewellyn enquired. 'Your Christmas list?'

  'Bit late for that, if so. No. It's a list of local poachers, courtesy of Mrs ffinch-Robinson. She seemed to think it might be useful.'

  Llewellyn reached for it. 'She could have a point.' He jabbed a bony finger at the name and address at the top of the list. 'This chap, Fred Skeggs, lives right by Dedman Wood.'

  'He'll have already been checked out by the house-to-house teams,' Rafferty reminded him. 'And, presumably, had nothing to tell them.' He remembered, a lifetime ago it seemed now, reassuring Mrs ffinch-Robinson that her poachers would be checked out. It hadn't been a lie, but they perhaps hadn't been interviewed in depth, as she had undoubtedly expected.

  'Still,' Llewellyn persisted, 'a personal visit might prove rewarding. And a least we'll feel we're doing something.'

  Rafferty shrugged. Most of his irritation at Mrs ffinch-Robinson's high-handed ways had now faded. Although she still rang up regularly to enquire into the progress of the case, Rafferty had left orders that she wasn't to be put through to him: Llewellyn could do diplomacy and soul-soothing so much better than he could. But, now that he had been reminded of the list, he decided he might as well look into it, to appease his conscience, if nothing else.

  Fred Skeggs looked about a hundred, though he was probably no more than seventy. Small and wizened, his eyes were as sharp and full of mischief as the nanny goat who had chased them up the path to Skeggs' isolated cottage.

  'So, Mr Policeman.' Fred fixed Rafferty with a gimlet eye. 'What makes you think I can help you?' he asked, after Rafferty had explained why they had called. 'Sit, sit.' He waved his hands at them. 'You're making my kitchen look untidy.'

  Rafferty couldn't imagine that their presence could make the tiny room look any more like a rag and bone merchants than it did already, stuffed to the rafters as it was with verminous looking clothing, rusting enamel basins, bait boxes and discarded tobacco tins, but he looked around for a chair. There was only one; a stout, wooden affair that was clearly the old man's. Glad he had put on his oldest, darkest suit that morning, Rafferty sat on a pile of dusty sacks and gestured Llewellyn to find a pew. There was nothing else but a pile of dog-eared and grubby copies of the Farmers Weekly to sit on – an ancient job lot that had been obtained at a sale by the look of them.

  Llewellyn's face was a study as, with a cloud of dust wafting around him, he perched his expensive, pale-grey suited posterior on this precariously balanced edifice.

  Rafferty wondered if Llewellyn’s puritan soul appreciated minimalism of this extent. He choked back a chuckle, but Fred Skeggs, obviously less inhibited, sniggered and flashed his toothless gums at them. 'You'll take a cup of tea with me? Not often I entertain peelers. Usually, it's t'other way about.'

  'Tea would be very welcome,' Rafferty thanked him, ignoring Llewellyn's quick shake of the head. 'We're trying to find anyone who might have been in Dedman Wood last Thursday night between say eight and ten.'

  Fred turned his head sharply away from the blackened stove. 'What would I be doing in the woods at that time of night?' Rafferty went to break in but the old man forestalled him. 'Given up the poachin', Mr Policeman, iffen that's what you're gettin' at. Too old for such larks, now.'

  Rafferty doubted this. For his age, Fred Skeggs seemed pretty sprightly. Rafferty kept his eyes averted from the outhouse, where, even through the begrimed windows, he could make out what looked suspiciously like the small bodies of hare and pheasant hanging from the roof. Instead, he nodded at the stringy mutt who hogged the opposite side of the hearth to that occupied by his master's chair. 'I wasn't implying you might have been in the woods
poaching, Mr Skeggs.' Not much. 'No, I thought maybe you walked your dog there as it's right on your doorstep.'

  'Old Growler?' Fred scratched under his filthy cap as though considering Rafferty's readily-provided excuse. But just then, Old Growler staggered to his feet, wobbled his mangy body around on arthritic legs, then slumped again with a weary old-age sigh to toast his other side at the fire and Fred abandoned the idea.

  'Takes himself for a walk iffen he wants one. Not that he bothers much now. Goes no further than the back garden to do his business.' He turned back to the stove and made the tea, handing them theirs before he hitched up his baggy string-belted trousers and sat down.

  The mugs were cracked, badly stained, handle-less; the tea dark brown and scaldingly hot. Although he kept a nanny goat who had a kid suckling, Skeggs evidently didn't believe in wasting the goat’s milk on policemen.

  Rafferty quickly found a space on the cluttered table and put the hot mug down before it stripped the skin off his palms. He noticed Fred seemed impervious to the heat. His first proffered excuse being rejected, Rafferty tried another. 'What about you, Mr Skeggs? You look as if you'd still enjoy a stroll in the moonlight on a crisp night?'

  Skeggs appeared startled at this suggestion. Rafferty had often noted that most countrymen were unsentimental about nature's beauties. Skeggs was no different and gave the impression that the only interest he had in nature was for the bits of it that he could kill and eat. But he seemed prepared to consider the idea that he was a closet nature lover and Rafferty nodded encouragement. If Fred had seen or heard something on Thursday night, he wanted to know about it. He was prepared to turn a blind eye to a little light poaching.

  'Thursday night, you say?'

  Rafferty gave another encouraging nod and Fred rubbed his whiskery chin thoughtfully. Rafferty half expected the desiccated skin to crumble away like the dried up leaves it so resembled.