Asking For It

Chapter One-2

HE GAVE ABRA A QUICK call as they got in the car. ‘Hi, sweetheart. How are you?’

‘About the same as I was when you asked me thirty minutes ago.’

‘But you’re feeling all right? You’re sure? No twinges or—?’

‘Joe. Please stop fussing and ringing me every half-hour. My boss is going ballistic. I’m pregnant not—’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No “buts”. You’ll get me the sack. The bastard hates pregnant women. According to the grapevine, he’s always managed to get rid of them before. Thinks his star clients will be offended at the sight of a pregnant woman.’

‘Offended? Most of his clients have littered the landscape with pregnant and discarded former lovers. They should be used to it.’ Abra worked for an agent in the entertainment world whose star clients were the usual demanding divas.

‘You know that, and I know that, but ‘Mr Entertainment’ thinks they’re delicate flowers that need nurturing. Or, at least, he falls over himself to keep them sweet in case they’re lured away by the competition. But it comes to the same thing.’

‘It’s you he should be nurturing, not his two-bit celebrities.’ But Rafferty’s conscience criticised: ‘And where was your nurturing last time? Yet you expect her boss to—

‘Two-bit? Hardly, Joe. He’s got some top-notch clients, and if it wasn’t all done automatically now, he’d need a truck to cart the cash away.’

‘Yeah, well. Never mind him. You look after yourself. And if I think he’s pushing you, I’ll come over there and—’

Abra laughed. ‘And what, Joe? Mark his card? Can you imagine the headlines? You’d be so famous he’d have to sign you up. Once his face stopped throbbing.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said again. ‘Just remind him you have rights and that—’

‘Get real, Joe. What would it cost him if he sacked me and I decided I needed the aggravation of taking him to an Industrial Tribunal? Half a wheelbarrow of his cash-stash, probably. He can afford it. Besides, I wouldn’t mind being a stay-at-home mum for a while.’

While Rafferty, too, would love her to be able to stay home, he knew they couldn’t afford it. The mortgage on their new house cost a fortune. His annual income didn’t look nearly as impressive on paper once all the deductions were taken out of his salary. There was little to spare for luxuries like stay-at-home new mothers-to-be. It made him feel a double failure in the nurturing department.

‘Look, Joe, I’ve got to go. I’m getting the look. Text me next time, okay?’

Although Rafferty hated texting – his fingers fumbled with the fiddly keys, and he liked to hear her voice – he found himself agreeing. ‘Okay, Abs. Love you. Take care.’ He snapped his mobile off, still torn between a desire to deck ‘Mr Entertainment’ and a need to transform himself in Abra’s eyes into a caring, nurturing father-to-be. The latter might prove a bit tricky if he punched her boss unconscious. He felt Llewellyn’s gaze and looked across.

‘Abra being difficult?’ Abra was Llewellyn’s cousin and they were close.

‘Not her. Her boss. Looking for an excuse to sack her, it sounds like.’

‘Ah. And you’re providing it with the constant phone calls?’

‘Apparently.’

Llewellyn turned the car into the narrow lane beside the field where the body had been found.

Rafferty expected the picky Llewellyn would take forever to slot himself into the narrow space behind the police cars. But for once he decided he was perfectly aligned first time, much to Rafferty’s relief.

The day was raw, sleet coming from the north-east stung their faces as they got out of the warm car, while heavy sky threatened something worse.

The body had been discovered by the usual dog walker, a woman who had been badly shaken by her dog’s find. Mrs Atkins had had to be comforted and served tea back at the station. Thoroughly questioned, she was able to reveal nothing more than the fact of the find, and Rafferty had ordered she be driven home.

The farmer who owned the barren field where the body of the presumed Laura Scott had been found, had given his hedges a skinhead cut, and the wind knifed its way through Rafferty’s three thin layers of shirt, thin jumper and raincoat as efficiently as a butcher cut through a large joint.

He took off his raincoat and hurriedly climbed into the protective coveralls in the hope that they would afford him protection, too. They didn’t. He tucked his frozen fingers under his armpits for warmth and surveyed the scene.

The field, winter-bare and seemingly stretching to the horizon was, to Rafferty, a desperate place to meet your maker. What had the victim been doing here? Surely she hadn’t agreed to meet someone at this godforsaken spot? Or had she perhaps been snatched from the street by some passing, opportunist pervert, raped and murdered?

He and Llewellyn were entered on the scene log by young Timothy Smales, whose fresh face was mottled by the chill and who looked even more perished than Rafferty felt. They followed the marked out cordon to where the body lay, a short thirty yards into the field.

He shivered as he studied the mostly naked flesh of the young woman and felt a strong desire to cover her to give her some protection from the wind, which felt more like winter than spring. Not an entirely altruistic desire as her exposed skin made him feel even colder.

But he was thankful that the killer had done his work close to the edge of the field, so they were spared the cross-country hike of a previous investigation. Not that this small consideration seemed to gladden the heart of Dr Sam Dally when he arrived five minutes later.

‘Och, these young women. Why can’t they get themselves murdered in a nice, snug, centrally-heated house somewhere? Inconsiderate, I call it.’

‘Perhaps she’ll take your advice in her next life, should she be unfortunate enough to get murdered in that one as well,’ Rafferty remarked, while the selfish, frozen to the marrow part of him, had to admit that Sam had a point. A nice ‘domestic’ murder made everyone’s lives easier. Sam got his centrally-heated murder scene, and Rafferty got an automatic and almost certain guilty party in the ever-loving spouse.

He watched as Sam knelt on the hard-packed earth by the body. His knees cracked loudly, temporarily, at least, drowning his moans as he began his examination.

Rafferty’s teeth chattered and his toes felt frostbitten, prompting a half-smile as he realised what a snowman must feel like. He let his gaze drift over the scene, while his face was pelted by sleet. He pitied the milling Crime Scene team; they’d be here for hours, examining every tuft and furrow for evidence. He didn’t envy them. At least in a short while he’d be back in his warm office with a hot cup of tea. Or at least somebody else’s office with a cup of wet and warm.

For once, Llewellyn had no sombre quotation to offer, and Rafferty glanced at him in surprise. ‘You’re quiet, Daff. Haven’t your Ancient Greeks got some suitable observation on this one? They’re not usually backward in coming forward.’

‘You’re not always very welcoming of their wisdom though, are you, sir?’

True enough. But that was because on the Welshman’s lips they generally turned into the beginning of a lecture, which the less-than-competently-educated Rafferty resented.

Dally didn’t take long, thank God, because any longer and Rafferty felt that he’d be turned into a snowman for real.

‘Will someone, for the love of God, get me up from here? My knees have seized up.’

Llewellyn turned his neatly-coiffed head in Dally’s direction. How did his sergeant’s hair stay so immaculate? Rafferty would have sworn he’d entered a pact with the devil, but the Welshman was a staunch Methodist and immune from such devilish blandishments. Llewellyn strode forward, and offered the plump older man a hand up. Not that Dally showed much appreciation for Llewellyn’s punctilious assistance, as once up, he shrugged Llewellyn’s hand aside, bent over to grab his bag, and hurried over to Rafferty.

‘I’m done here. Strangled, as you can see for yourself.’

Rafferty nodded. ‘Was she raped?’

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I’d guess that she was. The missing clothes suggest—’

‘Well, I guess you’ll be relieved to hear that I don’t do guesswork, Rafferty. It’s all weighed, balanced and measured. Any trace of man or beast on her person will be reported in the usual manner.’

Rafferty shook his head ruefully. ‘You set me up for that you old codger.’

Dally gave an impish smile. ‘And you fell into it nicely. Obliging of you.’

‘One thing I won’t guess at—what she was doing here. She’d have to be a masochist to come here for outdoor hanky-panky with a lover.’

‘Plenty of masochists about,’ Dally observed. ‘Some people enjoy suffering. I mean, look at those maniacs who go for an annual dip in the briny over Christmas. And I’m willing to bet there are still some religious types who go in for self-flagellation. Human beings, Rafferty, as I’m sure you know, find their pleasures in some strange ways.’

Rafferty nodded again. He didn’t know whether the young woman’s killer was a masochist. He was certainly a sadist, though. Presumably, the thought of the police having to investigate the scene in such harsh climactic conditions had provided the murderer with an additional pleasure to that he had got from the killing.

‘As for a timescale, your guess is as good as mine, given the Arctic conditions. But, as she hasn’t yet provided a meal for some scavenging animal, it’s likely to be a matter of hours rather than days.’

Rafferty accompanied Dally as he made his way briskly from the scene. He could only watch in envy as the practical Scot divested himself of his protective clothing, reached into the boot of his car, and took out layer after layer of winter warmers. First, a thin jumper, then a thick one, then a chunky cardigan and a tartan muffler wrapped crosswise over his chest, and finally a thick sheepskin coat. Driving gloves followed. The ensemble was completed by the addition of a Russian-style fur hat with flaps that Sam pulled over ears that had turned an interesting shade of purple.

‘Ah. That’s better.’ Sam looked happier than since his arrival. He spared Rafferty’s ill-attired body a pitying glance. ‘You’ve not the sense you were born with, man.’ He pointed over Rafferty’s shoulder. ‘I see your sergeant’s got the nous to equip himself for the weather. Though why that should surprise me...’

Rafferty turned to see Llewellyn at the boot of the car. Divested of his coveralls, he too, like the doctor, favoured several layers. Unlike Dally, Llewellyn’s slim figure retained its elegance with a scarf of a delicate ivory showing at the Astrakhan collar of his stylishly-cut coat. He could have just stepped out from the pages of some swish fashion magazine.

Rafferty’s frozen lip curled. ‘Intellectual types feel the cold,’ he said. ‘All that excessive brain activity tends to starve the body of sufficient warming blood.’

‘Is that so?’ Dally’s glasses glinted with a roguish light. ‘So what’s your explanation for your red nose and purple ears? Einstein’s Second Coming?’ Sam guffawed at his own wit. But he didn’t tarry long enough to give Rafferty the chance to fumble through his iced-up memory banks to riposte. Instead, he dumped his bag in the boot of his car, slammed it shut and just before he climbed into the driver’s seat, he threw some words over his shoulder.

Rafferty thought Dally had said he’d do the post mortem tomorrow. But the wind had torn his words away so he couldn’t be certain. Unlikely though, given that Dally invariably had to be prodded into setting the earliest date. Anyway, tomorrow was a Saturday, and the good doctor liked to exercise the Scotsman’s inalienable right to play golf at the weekend. He’d get the sensibly-clad Llewellyn to ring up later and check.

He zipped up his protective overalls and breathed in Dally’s car exhaust as he reversed up the lane. He noticed the red-faced farmer for the first time, arms akimbo, and truculent, clearly wanting to get on with whatever farmerly tasks would normally occupy him on a spring Friday morning. Rafferty held up five fingers at him, then he turned to Llewellyn. He took a sadist’s pleasure in telling the Welshman to take off his handsome coat and scarf and get back into his coveralls. He soothed his easily-roused conscience with the question: Why should the killer get all the pleasure?