Down Among the Dead Men Read online

  With a satisfied expression, she added, 'I don't know where Edward got to. Maxie showed up not much more than twenty minutes after she'd driven off, but I couldn't persuade him to wait for the 4.00 p m bus to Elmhurst and follow her. Claimed he didn't feel well and he did seem a little pale and tetchy, not his usual self at all. But what else can you expect with this unhealthy weather? I made him a drink and persuaded him to go to bed. Jane - Mr Charles's daughter, had already left for the hall with a little friend and her mother.'

  Rafferty thanked her again and let her go. He found he was still clutching Maximillian Shore's autobiography. On an impulse, he asked if he could borrow it.

  He thought Shore was going to refuse. Instead, he commented succinctly, 'I wouldn't have thought you'd have much time for reading with a murder to investigate.'

  Rafferty gave him a winning smile and confided, 'I find it essential to be able to relax when I'm in the middle of a murder inquiry, even if it's only for a few hours. The old grey matter often works better for the break.'

  Shore shrugged with an air of indifference. 'Borrow it by all means. Though why that should interest you, particularly...'

  Rafferty smiled. 'Let's just say I'm hoping he'll inspire me.' He heard the lining of his pocket tear as he stuffed it into his jacket. Llewellyn had several times advised him that he ruined the line of his suits through his schoolboy habit of cramming his treasures into every available pocket. But, at thirty seven, he knew he was unlikely to change. He wasn't sure he wanted to. 'Before we go, sir. Could we speak to your wife again and get her full statement? And if you could let me have your sister's address, I'd be grateful.'

  Shore's eyes narrowed. 'I'm afraid my wife's not at home, Inspector. As for my sister, you can have her address, by all means, but I don't understand what you think she can contribute to your investigation.'

  Rafferty assured him once again it was just routine and, with just a trace of his former reluctance still lingering, Shore supplied his sister's address. Then, in what appeared to be a burst of brotherly concern, he added, 'You'll go easy with her, won't you? This is a shocking business and my sister never did stand up to shocks very well.'

  'Don't worry, sir.' Rafferty was surprised at Shore's solicitude for his sister after the apparent animosity he had shown earlier. But his next words revealed that he wasn't concerned so much about his sister as about himself.

  'I don't want her coming here upsetting Henry. He's bad enough without adding my sister and her hysterics to the brew. And I've got to live with him.' He looked thoughtful as he showed them out and added, almost to himself, 'For now, anyway.'

  CHAPTER SIX

  'Funny about that phone call,' said Rafferty as they parted from Shore and got in the car. 'I thought so when it was first mentioned, but then it looked as though our killing was definitely tied up with the other ones, and it just seemed like an unfortunate coincidence. Now, I'm not so sure.'

  'Didn't it strike you as odd, too, that the dead woman's husband didn't contact us himself?' Llewellyn asked. 'I know Mr Shore didn't seem to think there was anything strange about it, but even so...'

  Rafferty nodded. 'I know what you're thinking. If the case has no connection with Suffolk, it's possible one of the family could be implicated. Certainly, whoever made that phone call knew his victim very well. It's an unlisted number - no stranger would be likely to have access to it. And he knew of her interest in rare flowers and was able to use that as bait to tempt her to that meadow. And, as we both know, most domestic murders are carried out by the spouse, so if it does turn out to be a domestic killing, chances are the husband's implicated. Shore's no fool and must realise the direction our suspicions are likely to take. He's probably just trying to protect Longman.' He tapped the book he had borrowed from Shore. 'I thought this might help us to learn a little more about the family. I know this is old stuff, but it'll give the background. It might be useful.'

  Although Barbara Longman hadn't been raped - and in spite of his other suspicions - a sexual motive for the killing couldn't be ruled out, so, while waiting to hear from DI Ellis in Suffolk, Rafferty had given orders that all known sex attackers should be brought in for questioning. However, as he discovered on his return to the station at lunchtime, the results were disappointing.

  Rafferty shut the interview room door on the one, skinny old man - all the team had brought in. Turning to Constable Hanks, he demanded, 'Is that it? Just old Albert? Surely you can do better than that?'

  'He's the only one we've got, I'm afraid, sir,' Hanks defended himself. 'The rest are either banged up, dead or have solid alibis. Old Albert's the only local sex attacker who couldn't produce an alibi for Thursday afternoon.'

  Rafferty sighed. Hanks had done his best. He always did, he was a bright lad and now Rafferty felt he had been unfair to take his frustration out on him. It was just that, after his conversation with Suffolk CID, he was less than sanguine that the cases were connected and he had began pinning his hopes on the possibility that one of their own local weirdos would prove to have been Mrs Longman's murderer. If not ... But he didn't want to think of the "if not" aspect just yet. Rafferty managed to dredge up a smile for the earnest young constable. 'Go and grab yourself some lunch while Sergeant Llewellyn and I have a word with Albert.'

  But old Albert was beyond understanding any of Rafferty's questions. Years of drink had pickled his brain and he met Rafferty's gaze from faded blue eyes that looked as if they had been through one too many cycles on the washing machine of life. Rafferty couldn't believe that the old man was still up to attacking anybody. Besides, his favourite victims had been little girls, not grown women and only one of his attacks had ended in death, and even that had been twenty years ago. 'We're wasting our time,' he told Llewellyn as they shut the door on the tramp. 'He's not our man, I'd stake my love life on it. But tell Hanks to check out all his usual haunts, anyway. Someone might have seen him drinking in the town when Mrs Longman was killed.' Just then, his stomach gave a mighty rumble. 'And get me some cheese and pickle sandwiches from the canteen on your way back,' he called before Llewellyn disappared round the corner.

  There were more reports waiting for Rafferty when he got back to his office, and, while he waited for Llewellyn to return, he made a start on them. But, when the first few he picked up proved as short on information as the earlier ones, he sat back and let his mind drift. Sometimes, if he just emptied his brain of all the swirling images that made concentrated thinking so difficult, it let one vital element filter back, the one that made all the difference. But, today, try as he might, he couldn't single out anything. He gave up when Llewellyn returned with his sandwiches. Taking a huge bite, he pulled the rest of the reports towards him, and started to read again.

  It was past midnight when Rafferty closed Shore's autobiography and turned out his bedside light. A Phoenix Life might be a strange title, he reflected, but it was certainly apt. As a lad of fifteen, Maximillian Shore had been left for dead in a mass grave of his fellow Jews. Uninjured, he had fallen with the rest as Nazi bullets had thudded into emaciated bodies. Shore had described the guards' chilling laughter as they finished off their victims and Rafferty could almost hear it ringing in his ears as he tried to settle. But the images of the deaths, with their attendant terror, blood and debasement, were still too vivid for sleep to come easily.

  He could see the young Maximillian Shore crouching for hours in the stinking hole, his only company the corpses and the buzzing flies that tormented him all that long, sweltering afternoon as he waited for darkness. His dead friends had apparently given him a macabre comfort, a strength to endure and survive that stopped him from going mad. With the coming of night, he had crawled from the hole, bid those who had shared his vigil a silent goodbye and set off. The days that followed would have filled half a dozen adventure novels. Travelling only at night, he had narrowly missed capture several times but, finally, after many hazards, he managed to contact an influential non-Jewish friend of his father, who ha
d got him out, first to Switzerland and from there to England. It was the beginning of a phenomenally successful life; a life of chances taken and risks overcome; until a hidden bomb had done what the Nazis had failed to do. It certainly gave him more insight into the family background, but as to helping him solve Barbara Longman's murder...

  Rafferty was still pondering Shore's incredible success and his own anticipated early rising the next morning, when sleep finally came.

  Rafferty had just got into the office on Sunday morning when DI Ellis got back to him. 'Morning Joe. Thought I'd find you working. My sergeant tells me you think our killer might have started spreading his favours around.'

  'That's right,' said Rafferty. 'Though, from what he told me about your bloke's MO, it doesn't match ours. But could we get together and discuss it?'

  'Might not be necessary. Did Stevens mention that I'd been to Ipswich to question a suspect?' Feeling an uneasy sense of deja-vu as he became aware of the euphoria in Ellis's voice, Rafferty confirmed it. 'When does the pathologist think your victim died?'

  Rafferty told him, 'Some time Thursday afternoon.'

  'Sorry, Joe, but it sounds as if you've got a copycat on your patch. Because the chap we've arrested had been held in custody at Ipswich since 11.00 a m that morning.'

  Rafferty, who had been holding his breath, now slowly let it out. Dispiritedly, he forced himself to ask the obvious, though he didn't doubt that Ellis had got his facts right. 'You're sure about that, Frank?'

  'Positive. Not only has he been singing like a poor man's Pavarotti, providing details that only the murderer could know, but the DNA tests prove he's our boy. It's a relief, I don't mind telling you. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since this case started, but I'll sleep tonight.'

  Doubt if I will, thought Rafferty glumly. Ellis's news had confirmed his growing doubts that Barbara had been a victim of the serial killer. And with the local weirdoes also out of the running, the possibilities were lessening, drawing closer to home, closer to Barbara Longman's family and friends. Swallowing his depression, Rafferty congratulated his opposite number and put the phone down.

  Superintendent Bradley had decided Rafferty should hold a press conference on Monday afternoon to tell the media of his progress so far in solving Barbara Longman's murder. Rafferty didn't know what Bradley thought he could tell them. He knew as well as Rafferty did that their progress had been zilch. The farmer, Thomson, denied he had been anywhere near the meadow, the Conservation Society, when telephoned, had been emphatic that, not only did they have few male members, but that none of the ones they did have had a forename beginning with 'J'. The alibis they had, thus far, been able to check, held up. According to Shore's personal secretary, he hadn't left his office all Thursday afternoon. And although, because he was away on business, they hadn't been able to contact the chap at the Chamber of Commerce with whom Henry had had the meeting, it was unlikely that Henry would be so idiotic as to lie about something so easily checked.

  Despite the fact that nobody had ever seriously suspected him, even old Albert had turned out to have an alibi; one supplied by an ex-policeman security guard at the Priory View Shopping Centre, way over at the northwest part of the town. He'd let the old man sit on one of the benches in the centre for most of the afternoon of the murder, until he began to abuse the shoppers. It had been late night shopping on Thursday, and normally, if Albert behaved himself, he let him stay till the shops closed at 9.00 p m. But, that day, he'd moved him on at 5.30 p m, and, though early, it was still much too late for him to have murdered Barbara, even supposing him still physically capable of it.

  And, in spite of the best efforts of their forensic, house-to-house and other enquiries, they had no other leads. No witnesses - not even the usual time-wasters - had yet come forward. For all the reports that had so far come in, Barbara Longman and her car might as well have become invisible as soon as they left the Shores' drive. No-one had seen her for the entire ten minutes that it would have taken her to drive to the meadow, a fact which Rafferty found so incredible that he ordered the descriptions of the victim and her car circulated again. Someone must have seen her, he reassured himself. It was just a matter of time before a witness came forward. It was still the holiday season. It was possible someone had gone on a late break abroad after witnessing Barbara driving to the meadow and was unaware of the call for witnesses.

  Superintendent Bradley took the news from Ellis well, considering. But, Rafferty took his emphatic assurances that he would have his full support with a big pinch of cynicism. Bradley had a knack for claiming the laurels of someone else's victory for himself, whilst, if there was any blame to be allotted, it was certain Rafferty would receive it in full measure. He knew that the Yorkshireman's support was a delicate plant. Bradley was a career policeman determined on carving himself a path right to the top, and Rafferty didn't doubt that he would get there. He had all the essential attributes for high office; the morals of a politician, the machiavellian mind of a con man, and a wife who was related to half the top brass in the force. He couldn't fail.

  As he left his superior to his machinations, Rafferty reminded himself of his mother's frequent exhortation. Just do your best, lad, that's all you can do. No-one can ask for more. Like hell, they can't, he snorted. Bradley can - and will.

  After briefing Llewellyn and the rest of the team, Rafferty put aside his pessimism. To hell with Bradley. This was his case, and he'd tackle it his way. And now that the Suffolk killer was definitely out of the running, they could direct the full force of their enquiries on the information they did have. Among other things, that meant checking out the Conservation Society a little further. Privately, Rafferty doubted they would find their killer among their members - why would he deliberately set the police on his trail? But it was likely the killer had connections with the Society, through a member who was a wife, sister or friend. How, otherwise, would he have any knowledge of the victim, or the family's unlisted telephone number?

  They had phoned Miss Colman, one of the committee members of the Society, but she had been unhelpful. Although obviously upset about her friend's murder, she seemed to feel the police were adding insult to injury by suspecting her precious members. Perhaps, Rafferty remarked to Llewellyn, a visit from the inspector in charge of the case would persuade her to be more co-operative?

  In spite of its grand-sounding name, the Conservation Society was based in a mean little fifties terraced house, near the recreation ground on the poorer, eastern outskirts of Elmhurst. Its scuffed front door opened straight off the pavement into a similarly scuffed hallway.

  The painfully plain, middle-aged woman who opened the door bore all the hallmarks of the committed "Green" campaigner; rope-soled canvas shoes, natural cotton skirt suit, even the "Save the Whale" badge proclaimed her dedication. But Rafferty got the impression her dedication had only grown as other areas of her life had become increasingly barren. Miss Colman wore no wedding ring, and, as he sensed that The Society had come to replace the husband and children that fate had denied her, he knew he would have to tread warily. Beneath her unnecessarily antagonistic manner, she seemed to nurse disappointment at life and bitterness at men in about equal measures.

  She confirmed her identity and, after examining them with all the enthusiasm of a vegetarian for a plate of congealed stew, demanded what they wanted now. 'I told you on the phone that you're wasting your time questioning my members, as few of them are men and none have the initial 'J'. Even if they did, it's certain that none of The Society's members can have anything to do with Barbara's death.' She capitalized the pronunciation of her baby like any proud new mother and added self-righteously, 'Green campaigners are into life, Inspector, not death.'

  'I'm sure they are,' he told her, placatingly. 'But whoever killed Mrs Longman certainly isn't, and from the information we have, it's apparent that, although he probably wasn't a member, the killer had some connection with the society and knew of Mrs Longman's involvement with it. As
her conservation work brought her into contact with a wide variety of people, it's essential we look into any connections, however tenuous. Checking the membership list seems the logical place to start.'

  'I see.'

  Her hostile stare wavered slightly and Rafferty was relieved to see that, of the two emotions that were evidently waging a war within her breast, the natural desire to have her friend's killer caught seemed to be overcoming her dislike of men and her antipathy to any criticism of her Society and its members. And, although it was obvious Miss Colman still found the thought of her Society being investigated by chauvinistic policemen a double intrusion, Rafferty's explanation had, at least taken away some of the sting of suspicion.

  'Well.' She relented. 'I suppose as long as you only want to eliminate my members from your enquiries...' She turned and led the way through to the office along the narrow, damp smelling hallway. 'It was the thought that you suspected one of them that I found abhorrent.' They might be men, her manner implied, but they were members of The Society, which, in her view, obviously saved them from the worst perversities of the male species.

  'I was very fond of Barbara,' she told them. 'There was no nonsense about her. She did whatever was required without any of that dreadful girlish flirting which some of my members seem to find essential whenever there are men around. It would be too awful if someone I knew had - killed her. But that's ridiculous, of course. After all, according to the papers, you policemen think she was killed by that disgusting pervert in Suffolk. Any connection with The Society is obviously just an unfortunate coincidence.'

  Rafferty decided it would be foolish to rouse her protective instincts for the Society all over again, so he didn't tell her the Suffolk killer was now out of the running. She would discover it soon enough when she watched the television news.

  The office was situated in the front room and was obsessively neat and workmanlike. A functional and unlovely government surplus grey filing cabinet was lined up, as though awaiting inspection, to the right of the window and beside it, situated to get the best of the limited light, was an equally ancient metal desk. The smell of damp was less keen in here, Rafferty noticed. Presumably, in the winter, the two bar electric fire kept the worst effects at bay.