Deadly Reunion Read online

  But all they found were several notes left earlier by Bradley, each one more Abra-succinct than the previous one.

  THIRTEEN

  Rafferty’s brothers, Mickey and Patrick Sean, were more than willing to accompany Cyrus, Louis and himself on a pub-crawl. To his surprise, so was Nigel.

  ‘I’ve been working hard,’ his cousin told Rafferty when he rang him, ‘selling houses and making money. It can get tiring.’ Poor diddums, thought Rafferty. He doubted his cousin knew what a hard day’s work was. ‘I could do with a good night out.’

  ‘I thought you were out most nights of the week.’

  ‘I am, dear boy,’ Nigel said in his usual patronising manner. ‘But those nights are with assorted lady friends or clients. Doesn’t do in either case to drink more than a couple. With the clients it’s necessary to keep one’s wits about one and with the ladies it’s necessary to keep one’s pecker up rather than suffering from brewer’s droop. I’ve a reputation to maintain with both parties.’

  ‘If you say so. Anyway, we’re meeting at the Horse and Groom, the pub near me, at eight this evening. You can meet Cyrus and Louis at last. I’ll see you there.’

  ‘The Horse and Groom at eight. Got it.’

  Rafferty put the phone down and got back to work. Some of the latest witness statements from the other ninety-odd reunees who didn’t feature on their suspect list made interesting reading. All of human nature was there: the gossip, the spite, the remembered grievances, the petty tale telling. It was all manna from heaven to a policeman. Or it might have been earlier in the case when he was looking for lines of inquiry. But now, the trouble was, spite and gossip was all it was, not evidence. None of it gave him a fresh lead. Or at least not a conclusive one.

  ‘Listen to this,’ he said to Llewellyn. ‘This statement’s from a man called Robin Nash. “Adam was over-fond of the younger boys. He was well known for it, though neither the teachers nor the lovesick girls seemed to suspect a thing. His favourite spot for these meetings was the sports pavilion, which conveniently housed a rubber mat for the high jump, so he could do his canoodling in cushioned comfort”. Shame he didn’t confide that little snippet the first time we talked to him.

  ‘Here’s another one. From a woman this time. “Adam might have been popular with the other sports-mad boys at school, but to the non-sporty boys and the plain or dumpy girls, he could be nasty. He specialized in making up cruel nicknames. I won’t tell you what he called me. It still hurts”.’

  ‘Mmm. We’ve already discovered that Mr Ainsley could be an unpleasant chap, though it’s interesting that he wasn’t so bashful about “coming out” with boys younger than himself. It seems to have been a particularly well-kept secret. I’ve certainly never read any speculation about his sexuality in the newspapers.’

  ‘Nor me. I suppose his victims were only too keen to keep any assault quiet. They’ll all be adults by now, with careers, wives, children. Imagine the embarrassment if it got out that you had been a victim of rape, if, like most of the pupils, you have a high-powered job.’

  ‘Nobody actually says that Mr Ainsley went that far.’

  ‘They don’t say that he didn’t, either. And if they’ve kept quiet about it for all these years, I can’t see them confiding in a police officer during a murder investigation. Imagine what they’d go through when it came to court. Though perhaps we ought to find out the identities of a few of his likely victims. It’s all just speculation and rumour so far. Who knows? Alice Douglas might not be the only one amongst our suspects with whom Ainsley had a secret affair that ended badly.’

  These other witness statements were still trickling in as people returned from holidays and business trips. Most were innocuous, the typical statement given by those who didn’t want any involvement with the police, which contained plenty of ‘I don’t knows’ and ‘I can’t remembers’, certainly far more cautious and circumspect than the original statements when news of the murder had shocked them into unwise indiscretions.

  ‘We’ll pass the more juicy statements on to Superintendent Bradley. Let him pick the flies out of them.’ Rafferty put the paperwork on one side and said, ‘Has the team re-interviewed everyone who was present at the school reunion now?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the last of them, though there are one or two that Gerry Hanks thought might be worth questioning again.’

  ‘Probably scrappy scrabbling after nothing very much.’ Which meant that there were no belated juicy morsels heading their way; at least none from the reunees themselves. Rafferty didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry. But, at the moment, he was floundering through unwanted pregnancies, discarded lovers, probable male rape, suicide, bullying and a first murder victim who seemed to change his sexual allegiance even more often than he changed his lady friends, and a second who was way too keen on ferreting out information on other people than was healthy. There was just too much of everything. One thing he did know – he needed a break from the endless statements and his own, nearly as endless, theories.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said to Llewellyn. ‘My brain feels like it’s drowning in blasted paperwork.’ He was surprised when Llewellyn, too, said he felt like he was swimming through a heavy tide. It was unlike the Welshman to complain. Llewellyn had the protestant work ethic to the nth degree and often put Rafferty to shame.

  ‘We’ll drive out to Griffin,’ Rafferty decided, ‘and have a wander round. We’ll get the keys off the caretaker.’

  The sultry weather had passed away and the day was inviting, with pale blue skies and breeze-scudded white clouds. It was weather to blow the cobwebs away and Rafferty breathed in deeply when he got out to the car park, hoping that all the oxygen to the brain would pump something loose that would lead to the end of the case. He handed the keys to Llewellyn and said, ‘You can drive.’

  Griffin School had the forlorn air of all empty buildings. The school summer holidays were not yet over and the only person on the premises was Tom Harrison. Rafferty found him in his flat, having elevenses. He still wore his cap, even though he was indoors. He grumbled a bit when Rafferty asked for the keys to the school.

  ‘They’re my responsibility, you know. I’m sure Mr Paxton and the board of governors won’t like outsiders wandering around, certainly not unaccompanied. I’ll come with you.’ He finished the remains of his tea and stood up. He adjusted his cap over his thick and curly dark hair that only now, although Harrison must be in his fifties, was starting to show signs of grey. The movement showed off a fine set of rippling muscles under the baggy grey tee shirt that Rafferty hadn’t noticed before. The man must keep himself fit, he’d say that for him.

  Rafferty would rather make the rounds of the school without Harrison in tow, and now he said, ‘Don’t let me drag you away from your elevenses, Mr Harrison. I’m sure your wife wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Wife? What wife? I live here on my own. Anyway, I’ve finished my break. I don’t take liberties, even though I’m virtually my own boss.’

  Rafferty gave in gracefully. It wasn’t as if he had any idea why he had wanted to come here. What could he expect to find, but empty classrooms and silence? He wouldn’t even find Adam Ainsley’s spirit here as he had died in Dedman Wood.

  But he was here now and he might as well look round, even if just to vex the grumbling Harrison. Once the caretaker had unlocked the main doors and let them in, he locked them behind them again and led them to the part of the school that housed the school’s Griffin emblem. It occupied pride of place on one of the white walls near the headmaster’s study and gleamed gold from the shafts of sunlight streaming through the oriel window.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask about that,’ Rafferty said to Llewellyn. ‘What is a griffin, anyway?’

  Llewellyn’s lips twitched and made an infinitesimal curve upwards as he launched himself on one of his lectures. ‘It’s a legendary creature, with, as you can see, the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle. The griffin was believed to be e
specially powerful and majestic as it was made up of the king of the beasts and the king of the birds. It was considered a guardian of riches, and education is considered a precious treasure. The griffin is also the enemy of ignorance.’

  ‘Good job it’s not likely to come alive then,’ Rafferty joked. ‘Or it might attack me.’

  ‘Lot of nonsense,’ said Harrison, his rugged features set in a mould of contempt. ‘Legendary beasts, indeed. They should be learning about the real world, not made up stuff.’

  ‘Shakespeare’s “made up stuff”, Mr Harrison,’ said Llewellyn. ‘And no one suggests they shouldn’t study his plays.’

  ‘Plays are different. I’m not talking about plays, but beasts that never existed. Why bother to invent them? Aren’t there enough animals in the world, without having to make more up?’

  ‘I’m with you, Mr Harrison,’ said Rafferty, whose Roman Catholic secondary modern school had had no such legendary emblems. Such a beast as the griffin would probably be regarded as idolatrous, particularly one given such prominence. Christ suffering on the cross was the only symbol given pride of place at St Joseph’s; that and pictures of Jesus exposing his blood-red heart. Cheerful stuff.

  Harrison walked along the corridor and opened up one of the classrooms. It was the IT department. Each desk had a modern, slim-line computer, scanner and printer. Rafferty had a sniff around and, for Harrison’s benefit, tried to look preoccupied with great thoughts, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

  ‘You finished in here, then?’ Harrison asked after Rafferty had walked up and down between the desks, fingering computers as he went.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rafferty. ‘Let’s go up to the Senior Common Room. It’s the sixth form’s particular place and it might yet tell me something.’

  ‘It’s an empty room,’ Harrison grumbled. ‘What can it possibly tell you? I’ve got plenty of other things awaiting my attention, you know. I hope you’re not going to want to poke your noses in every blasted room in the place.’

  ‘No,’ Rafferty reassured him. ‘It’s only a general feel of the place that I want. I don’t need to go into every room for that.’

  ‘Waste of time if you ask me. Haven’t you already been all over the school once?’

  He had. He had asked Paxton to show him round at the start of the case. Rafferty was beginning to think Harrison was right. He didn’t know what he had hoped to find, but, so far, he hadn’t found it. Nevertheless, he followed behind him through the Senior Common Room and another half dozen classrooms, before he and Harrison both seemed to have had enough. They were on their way out when they bumped into Paxton himself.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same thing,’ said Harrison, clearly not cowed by Paxton’s headmasterly authority. ‘The old headmaster, Mr B, never came near the school in the holidays. Apart from a teacher baby-sitting the holiday refugees, it’s always been my domain during such times. I hope you’re not going to start checking up on me.’

  ‘Not at all. Let’s just say it’s a case of new men and new brooms, Mr Harrison,’ said Paxton, resplendent in his holiday wear of a turquoise velvet smoking jacket. ‘I came here looking for a bit of peace. With three young daughters of my own at home, it’s bedlam. They’re all dancing round the living room to the latest pop sensation and I can’t get any work done. Don’t worry, I’ll lock up after myself.’

  ‘See that you do, then. Or I can’t be held responsible.’

  Jeremy Paxton seemed more amused than offended by Tom Harrison’s complaints and strictures; perhaps a truculent groundsman/caretaker was a school tradition, along with the eccentric headmaster. Nevertheless, from a certain glint in the headmaster’s eye Rafferty found himself wondering how soon it would be before Paxton’s new broom had swept the surly caretaker right out of the school. In these competitive days, you didn’t get to become headmaster of such a prestigious pillar of education without knowing how to hire and fire. Or at least make recommendations. And it had to be said that Tom Harrison wasn’t much of an advert for the school. If he was always this surly and insolent to visitors, it was a wonder he’d lasted as long as he had. Even Rafferty could see that the caretaker didn’t project the right image. And nowadays, image was all. A case of never mind the quality, feel the width. But, apart from his efficient way with lawns and playing fields, Harrison, it had to be said, had neither width nor quality.

  The ‘boys’ in the boys’ night out, consisting of Rafferty, his two brothers, Mickey and Patrick Sean, Cyrus, Louis and cousin Nigel, all met up, as planned, in the Horse and Groom, Rafferty’s new local. After introducing the two Americans to the family, Rafferty introduced them to the concept of having a kitty and they both coughed up without a murmur. There was some discussion about who was going to hold the money, there being no non-drinking and ever-scrupulous Llewellyn in the party, but eventually, after much humming and hawing, Cyrus was elected to the office of cash holder, it being thought that, as a man of God, he could be trusted not to dip into the kitty for extra drinks for himself. As he took the money, Cyrus confided to Rafferty, he had hopes of converting the barmaid he had met during their previous sojourn in the pub, who had taken a shine to him.

  He’s a Yank, thought Rafferty. She probably thinks he’s rich. Still, it had to be said that Cyrus, when he wasn’t preaching to the unconverted, had a certain earnest charm about him. He heard the barmaid tell him she loved his accent and, right on cue, Cyrus came back with ‘And Ah love yours, too, honey. You’ll have a drink with me?’

  Of course, the barmaid said yes. Rafferty, as it dawned on him that he should have kept hold of the kitty himself, hoped Cyrus wasn’t going to make a habit during the evening of buying new acquaintances drinks out of their kitty or they would end the night sober.

  Cyrus came back with the drinks and they all sat down. ‘Not going to push your advantage with the barmaid?’ Rafferty asked him.

  ‘Shucks, no. This is a family evening. Ah was just gauging her general openness to the Lord. Besides, Wendy told me Ah’m being too pressing about religion. She said it doesn’t go down well in this little old country of yours. She told me Ah’ve yammered into your ears till they’ve started to bleed.’

  Good old Wendy. Rafferty didn’t contradict him. Maybe things were looking up on the Cyrus front. Now all he had to do was curtail his ma’s eternal religious offensive as well as that of Father Kelly and he’d be home and dry. Atheism, here I come, he thought. He wished.

  On the other side of Rafferty, Nigel drawled in his ear, ‘So how are you coping with all this family thing? Want to run away screaming yet?’

  Rafferty took a sip of his Jameson’s, then said quietly, so as not to be heard by Cyrus or Louis, ‘I might not have been keen on acting as a lodging house, I admit that, but at least I’ve made the effort, which is more than you’ve done.’

  ‘The way I heard it you weren’t given much choice, so don’t come that old self-righteous crap with me. Besides, families, I find, can be too claustrophobic up close. It’s an illness. I can’t help it.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Rafferty. ‘Let’s face it, Nig, you’re just selfish to the core.’

  Nigel wasn’t even offended. ‘Very true. I find it’s the only way to be to get on in this world. Maybe you’d have got higher in the police if you’d learned to put number one first, last and in between. And you might get on better with your superintendent if you kissed his arse occasionally, like I have to do with my wealthy clients.’

  ‘He’d probably fart in my face if I tried. No, I think I’ll stick to tweaking his ego and his budget.’ He turned to Cyrus and Louis. ‘Fancy a game of darts?’

  Cyrus, up for experiencing everything English, enthusiastically agreed. ‘The local bar in ma neighbourhood has a darts board. Ah’m regarded as pretty darn good. What say we have a little bet?’

  Rafferty was willing, though he was sure Abra wouldn’t like him taking Cyrus’s money.

  In the e
vent, he didn’t have to take the American’s cash, as Cyrus thrashed him. Cyrus was ultra competitive, he discovered, and there was not a sign of Christian charity in the way he played and the pleasure he expressed each time he won another game. Rafferty accepted defeat with as much grace as he could muster and paid up, though he backed out of playing any more games with Cyrus. His brother, Mickey, had been watching the game. He had thought Rafferty’s thrashing at darts at the hands of an American, the funniest thing he had ever seen, but having watched the game he demurred when Cyrus offered to take him on, too. Nigel didn’t play. Darts were beneath him. He thought the game ‘common’, full of belching and beer bellies. Too much of the underclass about it altogether. Cyrus was forced to retire as reigning champion, so he went and got more drinks in.

  Rafferty, Cyrus and Louis staggered down the main road from Elmhurst’s centre, arms around each other, as much for mutual support as for camaraderie, bellowing out The Battle Hymn of the Republic for all their worth. Cyrus and Louis had been teaching it to them during the latter part of the evening. It was stirring stuff. Rafferty’s pleasure in their poor man’s ‘Three Tenors’ rendition was spoiled only by Abra who, when he had eventually managed to make the stairs to their bedroom, complained she could hear them coming from half a mile away.

  ‘I’ll have the neighbours complaining to me tomorrow. And we’ve only lived here for five minutes.’

  ‘Stuff the neighbours,’ said Rafferty, in the glories of intoxication. ‘Complain who dare. I’m heading for the stars.’

  ‘You’re heading for a hangover, anyway,’ said Abra. ‘Get into bed and shut up, why don’t you?’

  ‘None shall silence me,’ Rafferty declared, in a valiant attempt at some quotation or other. ‘The landlords of three pubs tried, but we walked out those doors with our heads held high, singing our contempt for their petty rules. They hadn’t got a music licence, they said, when Louis brought out a penny whistle to accompany us.’