Dying for You

Chapter One-3

IT HAD BEEN HIS SERGEANT, Dafyd Llewellyn, who had inadvertently put the idea into his head. Llewellyn had tentatively suggested, as he and Rafferty had made their way to the Register office on the day of Llewellyn’s wedding to Rafferty’s cousin, Maureen just over a week ago, that there was a girl named Abra whom he’d like Rafferty to meet.

Llewellyn seemed to want everyone to share his happiness – even Rafferty – whom, in spite of being his Best Man, had nearly managed to make the always early Welshman late for his own wedding. Suspecting the love-struck Llewellyn wouldn’t let the matter rest, Rafferty knew he’d better squash it immediately.

‘Don’t you start, Dafyd,’ he ordered. ‘Isn’t one matchmaker in the family enough?’ Rafferty’s Ma was the equal of any professional matchmaker; he wanted no more self-appointed experts—certainly not his own sergeant.

Llewellyn had said no more after that and Rafferty had congratulated himself on his decisive handling of the situation. But no sooner were Dafyd and Maureen safely ensconced among the Ancient Greek ruins they’d decided were the perfect honeymoon destination, than Rafferty had seen an advert in the local paper, The Elmhurst Echo, which prompted him to think further on the subject of his empty love-life.

‘Girls,’ it had said. ‘Tired of dating serial Casanovas and men who turn out to be married? Why not sign up with us and let us check them out so you don’t have to?

‘Guys, tired of cold-hearted gold-diggers? All our female members are well-educated professionals and earn enough to be able to buy their own gold.’

On impulse, Rafferty had torn out the advert placed by the Made in Heaven dating agency and stuffed it in his pocket where it provided a constant reminder. In the days that followed, he had frequently fingered the increasingly dog-eared cutting which he had taken to carrying around with him like a talisman, a guardian against the loneliness he was beginning to feel down to his soul.

Then, one day, he decided that, like Sam Dally, the medical profession’s very own mañana-man, he’d delayed for long enough. Llewellyn had been on honeymoon the best part of a week; it was time he made his mind up. After all, it was April. What was it the old saw said? ‘In spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’

But you’re not a young man, any more, Rafferty reminded himself. You’re fast approaching another decade. Forty was on the horizon—the age when life was supposed to begin. But he suspected, unless he gave it a push start, he would still be alone and lonely at 40. So if he hoped to have a wooed, bedded and wedded partner by then, he’d better start now.

And as the quickest route seemed to be via a professional dating agency he determined to sign up with the Made in Heaven lot. But before he did so there had been a few essential arrangements he had considered it wise to make.

When he had noticed the advert for the Made in Heaven dating agency and finally decided to do something about his lonely, single state, he had been looking for love. A harmless enough pursuit, he had believed. He had even felt a certain pride that he was finally doing something positive to help himself. He had even taken the precaution of providing himself with a different identity. Like a lot of Rafferty’s ideas, the alter ego touch had seemed a good one at the time. Positively inspired, in fact, given his Ma’s talent for poking her nose into what should be his private business.

Fortunately, he had known exactly who was most likely to agree to make a temporary loan of this other identity: Jerry Kelly, one of his numerous cousins. From the tiny part of the family that had reached the professional classes, Jerry had climbed to dizzy heights. He was an estate agent. So Rafferty was confident he’d do anything for money.

Jerry didn’t disappoint him. He was even obliging enough to agree to come to Rafferty’s home on his way to a viewing rather than expecting Rafferty to trail down to his new place; a swanky warehouse apartment by the docks, for which he had employed the services of a flowing-haired, interior designer.

Rafferty had felt like a parent whose offspring didn’t quite come up to the mark as his cousin gave his home a sneering once-over. After a final sneer round the room, Jerry eyed him speculatively and asked, ‘So what did you want to see me about that was so urgent? It’s only because you’re family that I found time in my busy schedule to come and see you.’

Rafferty knew ‘family’ tended to be low on Jerry’s list of things to do, he suspected Jerry had sniffed out the possibility of filthy lucre. After a lot of humming and hawing, Rafferty told him. He was treated to the rare sight of ‘Mr Cool’ being gob-smacked as Jerry stared incredulously at him.

‘Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You want to borrow my passport and one of my credit cards?’ Jerry’s gaze narrowed and he said, ‘don’t tell me the family’s only copper’s bending in the criminal direction of the rest of the family?’

‘Nothing so common, Jerry,’ Rafferty reassured him. Common tended to make Jerry shudder. Much like family. ‘It’s—well, it’s a bit delicate.’

His cousin folded his designer-suited arms and grinned. ‘Delicate’s this year’s new brash. All the rage. So let’s hear it.’

Rafferty forced himself onwards. ‘I want to sign up with a dating agency.’

Jerry’s true colours – definitely not this year’s new brash – were splashed across Rafferty’s living room. When his cousin’s sniggers finally spluttered to a halt, he asked, ‘Why can’t you sign up under your own name?’

‘When I’ve got a Ma who’s more nosey than Pinocchio on a good lying day? If she thought I was trying to fix myself up with a steady date she’d start organising me a ‘nice little girlfriend’ of her own choice again. Don’t you think I’ve had enough of that? The agency insists on p*****t by credit card. No way do I want a dating agency’s bill showing up on my statement. Ma’s got a key to my flat and if she discovers I’ve joined a dating agency she’ll re-launch her matchmaking with a vengeance. And since concluding my sergeant’s matrimonial arrangements to her satisfaction she’ll have time on her hands.’

‘What on earth did you let her have a key?’

‘I didn’t,’ Rafferty ruefully revealed. ‘She helped herself at the same time she decided I needed a housekeeper and proposed and seconded herself for the job. I know, I know,’ Rafferty defended himself as he saw an expression of contemptuous pity cross his cousin’s face. ‘Only Ma’s a difficult woman to say no to. Or rather, it’s not the nay-saying as such that’s difficult, it’s more the getting Ma to even hear the ‘No’ word. She’s got ears that hear every nay as a yea when it suits her. You know what a human steamroller she is when she’s determined on something.’

Jerry had had a taste of Ma Rafferty’s steamroller propensities himself in the past. Now he tended to stay out of her road. Rafferty often wished he could. Sensing the tide of empathy flowing in his favour, he added, ‘Obviously, the personal ID I supply has to match the ID on the credit card, so I’ll need to borrow your passport or driving license as well. We’re a similar age and look enough alike.’

Jerry’s nostrils flared at this as if something unpleasant had just exploded beneath them. His cousin’s reaction came as no surprise. Because, although they had a superficial similarity, Jerry would be the first to point out the many differences. There was their hair for a start. Jerry’s, which shared an image with the rest of him, was a sleek chestnut whilst Rafferty’s auburn went for the gritty realism of wayward spikes and unruly collar-curling. And although their features were much the same, somehow, in Rafferty face, his cousin’s sophisticated looks metamorphosed into a more plebeian cast. Maybe they could be altered, Rafferty told himself, if he practised superior expressions in front of the mirror as he imagined Jerry did. ‘God knows the pictures on those documents are always pretty awful.’

‘Mine aren’t,’ Jerry told him, condescendingly. ‘I had my photos done by a professional. Cost me a packet, too, but it was money well-spent. At least my passport photo doesn’t make me look like a criminal.’

Rafferty’s did. But then he had used the photo-booth in the nearest supermarket for his passport and driving license. They’d make the Pope himself look like an escapee from Strangeways. Now, he added the inducement that Jerry had so unerringly sniffed out and which had brought him hot-foot to Rafferty’s flat. ‘I’ll give you cash for the agency’s joining fee and six months’ worth of their monthly service charge with a hundred pounds on top as a thank you for services rendered.’

‘Make it two hundred and you’ve got a deal. As long as you can guarantee I won’t become involved in anything dicey.’

If it hadn’t been for the fact that he needed to keep Jerry sweet, Rafferty would have laughed out loud at his estate agent cousin’s pious pretence to ethical concerns. Luckily, the realisation that this whole venture was getting seriously expensive curbed any inclination to levity. Trust an estate agent to get a good bargain. But he wasn’t about to start bartering. The additional financial inducement was the decider for his extravagant, permanently broke cousin.

‘There’ll be no worries on that score.’ Rafferty assured him. ‘You know me. I’m a straight copper. Would I involve you in anything even half-way dicey?’

At this, Jerry stuck his hand out. ‘You’ve got a deal. Have a few hot dates for me. I’m going away this evening to York for a week on an estate agent’s convention, so I’ll even throw in the use of my apartment to get your romancing off to a discreet start. You don’t want to risk your Ma and her feather duster bursting in on you at an interesting moment.’

‘God forbid,’ said Rafferty. ‘Thanks Jerry. I owe you one.’

‘I know you do. And don’t call me Jerry.’ With the promise of money already burning a hole in his Gucci wallet, it was clear Jerry felt he was safe to revert to a patronising tone. ‘I’ve told you, dear boy’ – he had taken to using such affected endearments to go with his name-change – ‘I’m Nigel. Nigel Blythe. Not Jerry Kelly. So downmarket.’

Rafferty wasn’t about to quibble over his cousin’s name. ‘Sorry Nigel. I forgot you’d changed your name.’

‘Had to, dear boy. When you sell homes to the upper income bracket you’ve got to adopt their image; they’re scarcely going to buy from a Del Boy type. Mirror-imaging, I believe the psychologists call it. See the threads?’ He held out his suit jacket to display the lilac lining. ‘Designer gear. Top-notch stuff.’

Rafferty didn’t doubt it. His cousin had never been one to stint himself. It was lucky for him that the ponced-up Jerry, who had adopted a fancy accent to go with the fancy name, clothes and apartment, was the one the family never talked about – estate agents being lower than all other forms of life – even coppers. Jerry was even more of a pariah than Rafferty, so was unlikely to betray him. He and Jerry, as the family’s two unclean bell-ringers, had remained more or less on friendly terms. They managed this trick as long as they didn’t see each other too often. Apart from himself, Ma was the only one of the family who didn’t treat Jerry as a low life form. But then, as she had told him, it wouldn’t be Christian.

Jerry found another sneer for Rafferty’s suit. After he had swept a disparaging glance over it, he suggested, ‘you’d better borrow one of mine while you’re at it. We’re about the same size and if you’re going to sign up with this top-notch dating agency using my name I don’t want you letting the side down. Only you’d better treat it with more care than you treat your own.’

‘I will,’ Rafferty swore. ‘The slightest speck and I’ll take it to the dry cleaner’s and make it disappear.’

‘You’d better. I’ll drop it, the keys to my apartment and my documents in tonight before I set off for York.’

Rafferty’s scuffed black shoes earned an additional comment. ‘And for God’s sake invest in some decent footwear while you’re at it.’

Rafferty nodded. Now he’d got his way, he was prepared to agree to anything. They soon settled the details. And that evening, Nigel dropped everything off as promised. He had even produced another mobile phone for him.

‘I thought it better if you supplied that agency with a different mobile number from your usual one. Save any complications, you being a pi—’ Jerry broke off before he completed the word pig, and went smoothly on. ‘I’ve taped the number on the back. It’s one of my old mobiles, but you needn’t worry about giving it back. Nobody uses this type any more.’

Rafferty did, but as there was only so much sneering a man could take he kept quiet about that. And as he caught the phone that Jerry threw to him, scrutinised it and realised it was exactly the same as his own, he slipped it in his pocket without another word. Nigel, of course, had an all-singing, all dancing mobile that was so tiny Rafferty would have worried about it disappearing through the hole in his pocket lining. It even took pictures and could probably launch a moon-rocket if asked.

‘Just don’t drag it out when there are people about,’ Nigel instructed. ‘I’ve got an image to maintain. And if you’re going to borrow my name you’re going to have to make an effort to keep up appearances.’

Rafferty, the proud possessor of new Italian suit, shoes, silk shirt, plus a new identity, sat in his flat after Jerry had left and dialled the Made in Heaven dating agency on Jerry’s old mobile and made an appointment.

***