Down Among the Dead Men Page 4

  Shore's words not only explained why Mrs Longman had been at Tiffey Meadow, thought Rafferty, but they also signalled the first suggestion in his mind that someone other than the Suffolk serial killer had murdered her. Could it be just a tragic coincidence that, in attempting to save the rare flowers she loved from destruction, she had been destroyed herself? It was certainly an odd business, and one which he intended to look into at the earliest opportunity.

  'You'll want someone to identify the body, I imagine?' At Rafferty's confirmation, Shore remarked, 'In the circumstances, I think I owe it to Henry to relieve him of that unpleasant duty. If I hadn't persuaded them to come and live here, Barbara would still be alive.' Shore seemed to give himself a shake, before he went on, 'I can come now if it won't take long.'

  'Thank you sir.'

  'Charles?' A woman's voice wafted along the hall. 'Mrs Griffiths has just told me the news about Barbara. Why didn't you tell ... Oh,' she excused her interruption. 'I didn't realise you had company.'

  To Rafferty's amazement, as soon as she set eyes on Llewellyn and himself, the sharp, complaining manner vanished, and, like a chrysalis shedding its outer casing, the woman was transformed into a butterfly, whose automatic response to men - any men - was to flutter and flirt. Even her slim body seemed to develop more curves as she posed automatically in the doorway, mobile phone in one hand, while she smoothed her expensively tousled blonde hair with the other. Her reaction might have been appealing in a teenager, but in a mature woman, it was ridiculous, as if she had never grown beyond the coquette's tricks to gain male attention. As he glanced at Charles Shore, Rafferty found himself pitying her. Didn't she realise that her husband found her behaviour irritating rather than appealing? Or didn't she care?

  She raised the mobile phone carelessly, as though to explain what she was doing with it. 'I found it in Carlotta's room, though when I asked her if she'd had it, she denied it. That girl's such a liar...'

  'This is my wife, Hilary.' Briefly he introduced them. The introduction was clipped, as if its necessity annoyed him. Once it was done, he didn't spare her another glance; nor did he bother to spare her feelings. 'As Mrs Griffiths had told you that Barbara's dead, you might as well know the rest.' Bluntly, he added, 'The police think she was murdered.'

  She gasped, and as if to signal her distress, she dropped with easy grace into a convenient armchair. Shocked or not, she still managed to display her figure to best advantage, leaning forward so her cleavage could be admired, and, after making sure she had got their attention, she directed eyes huge, moist and appealing, at the two policeman. 'Murdered! I can hardly believe it. Poor Barbara. I do hope she didn't suffer?'

  As she murmured the words of horror and grief while rearranging the hem of her skirt to show more of her tanned legs, Rafferty was struck by their insincerity. Like a less than grief stricken mourner at a funeral, he felt she was merely uttering what the conventions demanded. Her eyes, too, betrayed her, because, in the brief fraction before she lowered her lashes over them, they showed her real feelings - she was glad Barbara Longman was dead, very glad.

  Had she been jealous of the victim? Rafferty wondered. He remembered that Shore hadn't bothered to conceal his admiration when speaking about Henry's wife, so perhaps she had cause? Rafferty studied her with an interest that would have delighted her, if he hadn't taken the trouble to make his inventory both speedy and covert.

  Although Hilary Shore was tall, slim, and so elegantly put together that Rafferty imagined it must take her half the morning to assemble herself, he knew she must be around the thirty mark, as he guessed that the younger boy he had encountered outside was hers and Shore's. And, although her make-up was skilfully applied, it couldn't quite restore the dewy complexion of a twenty-year-old. Nor could it disguise the fine petulant lines around her mouth. From the cream linen suit and soft leather pumps, she looked sleek and sly, expensive and dissatisfied - a dangerous combination in a woman with plenty of time on her hands. But then Rafferty was certain Shore would be well able to make her sheath her carmine-painted claws. Probably all he would have to do to pull her into line would be to cancel a few charge accounts.

  Hilary Shore looked up, her eyes ingenuous, with no trace of jealousy. 'Who can have done such a thing?' she asked, in a voice soft with appeal. 'Everyone thought the world of Barbara, didn't they Charles?'

  Shore didn't trouble to reply and her gaze fixed on Rafferty. He noticed she was beginning to get some crow's-feet under her eyes and his pity increased. Life was cruel to beautiful but ageing women, and Charles Shore didn't strike him as a husband given to kindness. Was he planning to buy her off and replace her with the latest bimbo model? Rafferty wondered.

  Unaware of his pity, her eyes fastened on him, their eager expression displaying a penchant for vicarious excitement that, for Rafferty, held even less appeal than her cloying flirtatiousness. 'Who do you think did it, Inspector? Might it have been that maniac up in Suffolk?'

  Rafferty, unwilling to indulge her ghoulish curiosity, left it to Shore to tell her the details and merely commented, 'It's a possibility we're considering, Mrs Shore, but at this stage, we know little more than you.'

  She frowned, obviously disappointed that he hadn't been able to satisfy her curiosity. Rafferty marvelled at the speed with which his private suspicions had become public property. The body hadn't even been identified yet, he reminded himself. 'At the moment, we're trying to piece together her movements. Perhaps you can tell me if you saw her at all yesterday?'

  'Me?' She blinked rapidly and, before lowering her eyelashes defensively, directed a worried glance towards her husband. 'No. I was in London all day yesterday. I'd gone up the previous evening and only returned late last night.'

  'My wife spends little time here,' Shore told them. 'What was it yesterday, my dear?' Despite the endearment, his sarcasm was biting. 'Shopping? Having your hair restyled - again? Or perhaps it was that expensive oil woman?'

  With a sulky pout, she corrected him. 'Mrs Armadi is an aromatherapist, Charles.' Uncoiling her long, golden legs in a gesture designed to be provocative, a tinge of complaint returned to her voice as she went on. 'You know how depressing I find this mausoleum. You're never here and I must have some lively company. The children, no matter how much I love them, are simply not enough. My nerves couldn't stand the isolation if I didn't see some bright lights occasionally.'

  She cast a look of appeal at Rafferty and, in an explanation that was a subtle thrust at her husband, she added, 'Mrs Armadi is marvellously soothing. I don't know what I'd do without her.' Her voice sharpened as she addressed Shore. 'And why shouldn't I buy nice clothes? As your wife I do have a certain standard to maintain.'

  Rafferty wondered if he'd imagined the slight stress on the word 'wife'? Was she letting Shore know that she suspected he spread his conjugal duties with other less official wives?

  'I spent most of the morning at a fashion show at Harvey Nichols,' she continued, her voice softening as she returned her attention to Rafferty. 'And then went on to Mrs Armadi, so I had no idea Barbara was missing until I arrived home yesterday evening. Frankly, I thought Charles over-reacted when he called you so soon. After all,' she cast a spiteful glance at her husband, 'Barbara was a grown woman ... she might have arranged to meet someone.'

  Charles Shore's reaction to this was explosive and pointed. 'Don't you dare suggest such a thing,' he shouted at her. Incredibly, as soon as the words were out, his temper vanished, and, apparently with little effort, he regained control of himself and added more reasonably, 'Do you want Henry to hear you tarnishing her memory now she's gone? And perhaps if you spent more time at home, looking after the children, and supervising the household staff, instead of leaving it all to Barbara, she wouldn't have been murdered.'

  Hilary Shore's eyes narrowed and she glared at him. Beside him, Rafferty felt Llewellyn shift uneasily, as if he sensed a row brewing. Rafferty sensed it too, and he wanted to get out before it erupted. He'd heard enough quarrel
s to last him a lifetime. First between his large, boisterous, argumentative family and then with Angie, his dead wife. 'Er, if you're ready, Mr Shore, perhaps we ought to make a move and get the identification over with?' he suggested, dryly adding as an extra inducement, 'I wouldn't want you to miss that meeting.'

  His ironic tone was lost on Charles Shore, who obviously not only took his business meetings seriously, but expected everyone else to do the same. He simply nodded, picked up the mobile phone his wife had carelessly discarded, and led the way to the door without a backward glance, ignoring Hilary's waspish enquiry as to when she could expect him back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'Not your average Essex man,' Rafferty pronounced after Shore had positively identified the body as that of Barbara Longman and driven off to his meeting in the turbo-charged BMW in which he'd followed them to the mortuary.

  Llewellyn nodded. 'Not your average family either,' he commented. 'Didn't you think it strange that Shore didn't even trouble to go upstairs to offer Henry his condolences? It would have been the normal thing to do.'

  Reminded of his earlier pity for the children of the household, Rafferty nodded. 'But that household doesn't strike me as exactly normal.'

  'Perhaps Mrs Shore will break the news?'

  Rafferty gave him an oblique glance. 'You think so? I'd say it would be more likely that she'd take off back to London to get away from the general gloom. She didn't look as if she would be likely to join in any breast-beating. Besides, from what Shore said, the dead woman seems to have acted as a stand-in mother to all of them. Poor little sods. I suppose the job of breaking the news to them will fall to that sour-faced housekeeper.' Rafferty unlocked the car door. 'Oh well, it's none of our business. Come on, let's get back to the station. I want to talk to the Suffolk CID - find out if their murderer's MO has any more similarities to ours than we've so far discovered.'

  Once back at the station, and before he got onto Ellis, the Suffolk DI in charge of the other investigation, Rafferty had a word with those of the house to house team who had returned, though he had little hope that any witnesses would emerge. And so it proved. As young Hanks remarked, what would anyone but an ardent conservationist be doing, hanging around an overgrown meadow? Particularly one within sniffing range of the River Tiffey.

  Though he didn't say so to the young constable, Rafferty shared his opinion, and Hanks's remarks deepened his doubts about the killer's identity. The bodies of the two victims in Suffolk had been found in alleyways. Why would a rapist like the killer over the border change his pattern and hang around a lonely meadow? Surely he would realise that potential victims were likely to be few and far between? Even the two boys who had found the body had only been there exercising their dogs because they'd been at a loose end after being thrown out of their local soccer team for fighting, and were intent on proving to each other that they didn't care.

  Dismissing the team for a quick cup of tea in the canteen before they went out again to resume their questioning, Rafferty was disappointed to discover that the early results from the team questioning the motorists on the main road by the meadow were equally disappointing. Reminding himself, again, that it was early days yet, Rafferty picked up the telephone once more. He hoped DI Ellis at Suffolk would have a bit more information for him.

  But Frank Ellis, the officer in charge of the Suffolk investigation wasn't available. His sergeant told Rafferty that Ellis was over at Ipswich, checking out a possible suspect for their serial killings. 'Perhaps I can help, Inspector?'

  'I hope so,' said Rafferty. 'We've had a murder here that looks like it might be the work of your killer. Can you give me the details of his MO?'

  'Sure.' The sergeant gave a tired laugh. 'To tell you the truth, Inspector, we won't be sorry if your killing turns out to have been done by our boy. We'd be glad of someone to share the work and the blame. I've had six hours sleep in the last two days, and the way things are going, I'll be lucky to get that much in the next two.'

  'I'd sympathise,' Rafferty remarked dryly, 'only I have a feeling I might need all the sympathy I can get for myself if your killer's moved his base of operations over our border. If I can have those details?'

  'Sure. You'll know from the newspaper reports that both our victims have been in their late twenties, early thirties and blonde, and that our chappie likes to hang around back alleys waiting for his victims?'

  Rafferty confirmed that he knew that much. Remembering the telephone call that Shore had mentioned, which had drawn Barbara Longman to her death, he asked, 'Any evidence that they might have known their killer? Such as a phone call before they left home, perhaps?'

  'Funny you should mention that,' said the sergeant. 'Because we've reason to believe that they did both know their killer. Though the phone call aspect's out. The first victim didn't have a phone and the second was staying at her mother's for the weekend and the mother was adamant that it didn't ring the entire time her daughter was there. But both victims were married, and from what their neighbours said, we think they might both have been playing away. It looks as if they arranged to meet their killer close to where their bodies were found. We know they both set out on their own, and although we can't know if the second victim arrived there alone, as she drove her own car, the first one went by bus and the driver remembers her getting off the bus by the alley where she died. He told us no-one else got off there, so it seems as if her killer might have been waiting for her.'

  'How about the method of killing? I know they were suffocated, but have you any idea what he used?' Rafferty, aware that serial killers often had their own particular trade mark, knew that these details wouldn't have been released to the press. Stevens confirmed it before he went on. 'Stuffed the victims' panties in their mouths after he'd beaten them semi-conscious and then held their nostrils closed with his hand. He's a vicious sod, this killer,' Stevens told him, 'and getting more so. I saw both victims, and although the first one had been pretty badly roughed up before he killed her, the second was far worse. You should see the autopsy report. Oh, and, they were both raped, but after death, not before, as the papers assumed. Anything else you want to know?'

  'Not just now, thanks. What you've told me has given me plenty to think about.'

  'And do you think your killer and ours might be the same bloke?' With an apologetic laugh, Stevens added, 'Only it would be nice to have some news to give to DI Ellis when he gets back. We seem to be getting pretty bogged down with this one,' he confessed.

  'I'm not sure, Sergeant. There are certain similarities, such as the age of the victim, and the hair colour. But the rest of your killer's MO doesn't match up.'

  'Think you've got a copy-cat killer, then?'

  'Could be. Thanks for all your help. Can you tell DI Ellis I rang and that I'd like to come over and see him as soon as possible?'

  'Will do, sir.'

  Thoughtfully, Rafferty replaced the receiver and told the hovering Llewellyn what he had just learned.

  The Welshman frowned. 'It's not exactly conclusive either way, is it, sir?'

  'No. Though, if it was the same killer, it's strange that he didn't beat her as he did the other victims. Especially as, since the other cases followed a predictable pattern of increasing violence, you would expect the third victim to be beaten far more brutally than the first two. Yet, this murder was gentle by comparison. Apart from a small bruise on her temple, he doesn't seem to have hit her at all. Dally doesn't think she was raped, but we'll know for sure after the post mortem. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean anything, he might have been disturbed before he could do so, though it seems unlikely as it was such a lonely spot.'

  He picked up his mug of tea but it was cold and he put it down again in disgust. 'Anyway, I've left instructions for Ellis to contact me, as I'd like to compare notes more fully on this one. But, as the information from Suffolk is inconclusive, we can't afford to rule anyone out of our suspicions. That means we'll have to speak to the dead woman's family again, get
some statements from them. For one thing, I'd like more information about that phone message to the Shore house, and the farmer it mentioned. But we'll leave all that until after the p m. Dally tells me he's scheduled it for tomorrow morning.'

  Rafferty was pleased Sam Dally had decided to exert himself on this one. Unusually, he combined two roles, and Rafferty surmised that his Police Surgeon half must have given his Pathologist half a talking-to for not only did the post mortem start on time but for once, Dally didn't indulge his usual macabre line in jokes and it finished earlier than Rafferty had expected.

  Sam confirmed that Barbara Longman had been suffocated. Or - as Sam had it - her death was "consistent with suffocation", and, although he refused to commit himself as to the means, he thought it probable the killer had pressed something soft, like a cushion, over her face.

  She hadn't been raped. Although an attempt had been made to make it look as though she was the latest victim of a sex killer, it was an amateurish effort. Her clothing had been disturbed, but that was all. There was no seminal fluid, no bruising to the soft flesh of the inner thighs, no real assault at all - apart from the undeniable fact that the victim was dead. To Rafferty, it was looking more and more like the work of a copy-cat killer.

  Keeping a careful distance between himself and the body on the autopsy table, Rafferty asked, 'How much effort would it have taken to hold her down and suffocate her at the same time? Or do you think she was knocked out, first? That bruise on her temple-'