Rafferty and Llewellyn British Mysteries Books 1 - 4

Chapter Seven-2

RAFFERTY WAS GRATIFIED to find he was in the right for once. They'd passed Linda’s photograph to the media in time to catch the Monday papers, and Linda's girlfriends had seen the item and the request for information. He and Llewellyn were soon en route to south London to see them.

'Let me do the talking,' he warned Llewellyn. If, like Linda, they were part-time hookers, he didn't want Llewellyn going all moral on him and putting the girls’ backs up before they shared what they knew.

Despite making good time, it was nearly noon when they reached Streatham, and then Rafferty spent twenty minutes circling round before he could park. Finally, ignoring Llewellyn's stern exhortations about policemen not being above the law, he left the car on a double yellow line. He gave Llewellyn a smug smile as he dug in his back pocket and slapped a ‘Police’ sticker on the windscreen, a la ‘Del Boy’ Trotter with his ‘Doctor on call’ homemade effort. ‘‟Be prepared”, is my watchword, Daff.’ The Welshman wasn’t the only one who could come out with quotations, even if his own weren’t of his sergeant’s preferred highbrow sort. ‘‟Dib, dib, dib, dob, dob, dob.”’

Llewellyn’s aquiline nostrils quivered a fraction at this, but he said nothing, beyond the accurate observation, ‘You were never a Boy Scout.’

‘True. I didn’t fancy sewing on all the badges I’d have won. Bet you were, though.’

Llewellyn didn’t deny it.

Rafferty cursed when he saw the flat. It formed part of a large house, with a tarmac front garden that provided ample space for parking and would have saved them the half-mile trudge back to the car. He should have guessed. Many of the large, formerly family homes around this area had been converted into flats.

Ignoring the sombre-suited Llewellyn's wince of pain, Rafferty straightened his dazzling orange and magenta tie and studied the array of cards and bells by the front door. He pulled a face when he realised they wanted the top floor. 'I hope they've got a lift,' he muttered as he rang the bell.

The grill spluttered into life, he shouted his business and the door was released. Rafferty cursed again as he saw the 'lift out of order' sign.

By the time he reached the top floor, his breathing was phone-pervert heavy, and he had to hang on to the banisters for a minute, with nothing but a helpless grin to ward off the wary looks of the two young women at the door. While he clung there, Rafferty had time to reflect that he had probably stopped smoking none too soon. His lip curled as he noted Llewellyn's breath was perfectly measured. The Welshman’s body was as disciplined as everything else in his life, and he worked out twice a week in the police gym; something which earned a few ribald comments from the canteen cowboy beer guts at the station.

The girls looked nervously first at each other and then at him. 'Inspector Rafferty?'

Still gasping, he could only nod. Did they really think any self-respecting rapist likely to knacker himself by climbing all those stairs?

As the girls still regarded him with suspicion, he pulled his identity card from his wallet; wordlessly, he thrust it at them.

Reassured, they now became concerned at his speechless condition and one of the girls asked, 'Are you all right?'

'Really, I'm fine,' he gasped, when he was finally able to get a word out.

'The stairs are tough on older people,' she sympathised artlessly, while behind him, he heard a muffled snort from Llewellyn, who was still – just – the right side of thirty.

Her comment did nothing to boost Rafferty's ego. Dammit all, he was only thirty-seven, not seventy-seven. He supposed along with giving up smoking, he ought to start taking more exercise, watch his diet, cut down on alcohol; in short, make himself as big a misery as Llewellyn.

Apparently, the three girls all made a somewhat precarious living on the fringes of show business, and although Linda had not only been a friend, but had also been about to move in, they could tell them little about her. It seemed that none of them enquired too closely into the affairs of the others. 'Please try to remember,' he pressed. 'It's very important. Did Linda say anything, anything at all, about any regular men she might see at Elmhurst or where they might meet?'

They looked at one another and shook their heads. The blonde girl, Patsy, said, 'We knew she must have some men friends down there, of course, because sometimes, when she came up to town, she had quite a bit of money with her, money she wouldn't have been able to earn otherwise. But who they might have been, I've no idea. Perhaps Tina would know more, she's known Linda a lot longer than either of us two.'

Rafferty looked about him hopefully.

'She's not here. She had a very early flight to the States last Saturday morning. Tina's a dancer,' Patsy explained apologetically, 'and her agent managed to get her a tour booking as a replacement at the last minute.'

'Would you have a number where I could contact her?'

'She forgot her mobile. You could try her agent.' Patsy picked up the phone book and read out his name and number as Rafferty jotted the information down.

'You don't happen to know the names of any of her men friends here in London?'

Patsy shook her head. 'She rarely mentioned anyone. Men were just – men – to Linda, unless she met someone who could help her career.'

'It was that important to her?'

Patsy smiled at him. 'Oh, yes. In fact, you might say she spent her whole life playing a part.' She handed him a photograph from the sideboard. 'That's Linda, in the middle.'

The Wilks's family photographs hadn't really captured the dead girl. This photo gave far more of an idea of the real Linda. As Patsy had said, she was pretty enough, in a pale, unhealthy sort of way. Her hair hung over her face in the expected provocative manner, and though her mouth held a matching pout for the camera, there was a hint of desperation in her eyes.

'When was this photo taken?' asked Llewellyn, obviously determined to get in on the act, despite Rafferty's warning.

'Last year. She had a small part in a film and we went to see her on set. She was so excited about breaking into films, was sure her big chance would come from it. But it was never released. They ran out of money.'

'Did Linda ever mention the Elmhurst Sanatorium?' Rafferty queried. He didn't have much hope anything would come of it, but he had to ask. They shook their heads. 'What about Dr. Anthony Melville-Briggs or Dr. Simon Smythe?' No, they'd never heard of them either. He ran a few more names past them, but they, too, were unknown to them.

Still, that proved nothing, Rafferty reassured himself. Linda had not been forthcoming about her men friends. He held up the photograph. 'Is it all right if I take this?'

Patsy nodded.

'I'll let you have it back as soon as possible.' He fished in his pocket for his number and handed it over. 'If you think of anything, please phone me.'

Patsy showed him out. 'Poor Linda. All she wanted was the big break. She never talked about anything else.' She shook her head. 'It's funny, but the last part she played was that of an angel. Another flop.' Her eyes flickered upwards. 'Strange to think that if she's managed to get up there she'll be auditioning for the same part right now. You will get the man who did this to her, won't you, Inspector?'

Rafferty did his best to reassure her on that point. He wished he felt half as confident as he sounded.

He was thoughtful as he and Llewellyn walked back to the car. They had learned little and the thought depressed him, but he cheered up a bit when he discovered they hadn't been given a parking ticket. He even let Llewellyn drive and as they left the quiet residential street behind he sat staring restlessly out of the side window. The traffic lights changed to green and they rounded the corner. His ears pricked up as he heard the familiar sound of a concrete mixer. Hadn't his Uncle Pat said he was working on a building site around this way?

Rafferty looked at his watch and grinned. Five to one. Couldn't have timed it better if he'd tried. 'Pull up here,' he instructed.

'But it's a double yellow line, Sir,' Llewellyn protested for the second time. ‘I really can't just—'

Rafferty sighed, unwilling to go through that all over again. 'Never mind that,' he ordered. 'I'm only asking you to pull up for a minute, not take up squatter's rights.'

Llewellyn muttered under his breath but did as he was told.

In spite of feeling he was beginning to know and understand his sergeant better, Rafferty still found his unrelenting company something of a strain and he needed a break, however short. The craving for a bit of light relief made him feel guilty and the sharp edge had gone from his voice as he added, 'Get some lunch and come back for me in an hour. You'll find there's a decent pub near the common. They serve hot food and they've got a car park, with no double yellows in sight.'

He got out of the car and slammed the door with the enthusiastic vigour of a convict out on day-release. He crossed the pavement and skirted the barriers guarding the building site. A pleased smile settled on his face as he took in the beginnings of a block of rather superior apartments rising from the dust and rubble of some previous building. He stood and watched for a little while, taking pleasure in the almost symphonic movements of the foreman and his men as they laid their bricks. Then, as though obeying the commands of some invisible conductor, they all laid down their trowels at virtually the same moment and with a purposeful air, they followed one another down the ladder secured to the scaffolding. Lunch-time.

Rafferty strolled over. Already he could feel his spirits lifting. Building sites always had that effect on him. He had done some of his best thinking whilst surrounded by the roar of machinery and the good-natured cussing of a building crew.

'Hello, Uncle Pat.' It was a courtesy title as Pat was really a first cousin; his oldest and favourite cousin, in spite of the fact that he was always ready to take a rise out of him. At least he didn't hold his job against him.

The black-haired giant glanced round and his broken-toothed mouth curved into a grin. 'Joseph Aloysius! It's yourself, is it?' His eyes twinkled as he clapped him on the back with a heavy hand. 'What's this I hear about you and our Maureen? Your Ma's told me you're sweet on her.'

Rafferty sighed. Maureen was Pat's eldest daughter, and his second cousin. She was very bright and usually managed to reduce Rafferty to tongue-tied inanities in ten seconds flat, an obstacle to love that his ma seemed happy to ignore in her desperation to see him married again.

The trouble was that his ma couldn't see beyond the fact that, in a country of increasing non-believers, Maureen was a "good Catholic girl", and likely to encourage the religiously lax Rafferty back to the paths of righteousness. As if that wasn't recommendation enough for his mother, she came from a good breeding family—his own. Hadn't his ma drawn his attention to Maureen's child-bearing hips more than once? Unfortunately, for his ma they seemed to confirm that the match was made in heaven.

'When's the wedding?' Pat enquired, still grinning. 'Sure an' it'll be useful having a policeman as a son-in-law.'

Rafferty managed a sickly grin.

'Don't look so worried, lad. It's only pullin' your leg, I am. My girl knows her worth, her ma's made certain of it. Surely, you know she goes for the intellectual type?'

Rafferty hadn't, but, as he did his best to stay out of her way, that wasn’t surprising. Still, he made a mental note, just in case this fact should come in useful one day.

‘She's on the hunt for a professor, at least,' Pat went on. 'I'll give you ten to one she wouldn't think of throwing herself away on a skinny carrot-top copper, whatever your ma hopes. It's my bet you'll stay on the shelf a while yet, Joseph.'

Amazingly, Pat had married an educated woman with ambitions, and, after twenty-five years together, they were still happy. It must be the attraction of opposites, mused Rafferty, uneasily reminded of Maureen.

Pat put his great arm round his shoulders and gave him the same disarming grin that had persuaded the middle class highbrow, Claire Tyler-Jenkins, up the aisle and into his arms. 'Chin up, son. A little disappointment in love is good for a man. Sure and you'll get over it.'

Since being bowled over by his uncle's determined romancing, Rafferty’s ‘Auntie’ Claire had transferred her ambitions to her children. Rafferty was grateful to have confirmed his conviction that none of those ambitions included marrying one of her daughters to him. But he still suffered a twinge of unease. Because his ma was also a woman of ambition. And Kitty Rafferty had a way of eroding a person's resistance that was positively tidal.

'Enough of this mournfulness.' Pat punched him playfully on the shoulder with sufficient force to break a bone. 'Come away in the hut and have a bite to eat with the lads.'

As he sat in the hut, wedged between his Uncle Pat and his son, Sean, Rafferty for the moment forgot his troubles. The atmosphere in the hut was cheerful, the tin mug in his hand held tea, strong, sweet and piping hot and his ma, Llewellyn, The Elmhurst Sanatorium and Dr. Melville-Briggs seemed a million miles away. For the moment, he was content.

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