The Hanging Tree

CHAPTER ONE-2

Mrs ffinch-Robinson arrived at Elmhurst police station ten minutes later and was shown into Rafferty's office. She proved not only entirely sober and respectable, but less than understanding of the slow police response.

Rafferty did his best to soothe her ruffled magistrate's feathers. 'It's nearly Christmas, Mrs ffinch-Robinson. A very busy time for us and—'

'I understand that, Inspector. But I would have thought a report of a man's body hanging in the woods would take precedence over public house brawls.'

'Normally it would, of course. Unfortunately, all the uniformed officers were out or otherwise engaged when your call came through. All I can say is that an officer was despatched in response to your call as soon as possible.'

Thankfully, Mrs ffinch-Robinson didn't pursue the complaint. But she had another that was equally sensitive. 'I suggest you speak to the young officer who finally arrived in response to my call, Inspector. I found his manner offensive. He not only had the effrontery to smell my breath as though he believed me to be drunk.' Briefly, Rafferty closed his eyes, surprised at Lilley's clumsiness; it was more the behaviour he had come to expect from young Smales. 'But he also warned me of the penalties for wasting police time—hardly conducive to good police-public relations, you must agree.'

As he gazed at Mrs ffinch-Robinson, perched, with all her ruffled magisterial dignity in his visitor's chair, Rafferty wished he hadn't sent Sergeant Dafyd Llewellyn out to soothe the latest victim of Elmhurst's Christmas-shopping criminal fraternity. He could do with his diplomatic skills here. He marvelled at Lilley's nerve. Pity his judgement wasn't so hot, because, from the top of her rather stylish Lincoln green, deerstalker hat, to her no-time-to-waste French pleated hair, through to her firmly corseted figure and practically shod feet in their brilliantly burnished tan boots, Mrs ffinch-Robinson proclaimed authority, sobriety and a total lack of hysteria. Her voice, as crisp as a Cox's Orange Pippin, was clear, precise, and as demanding of a policeman's respect as the rest of her. Hardly surprising, of course. As she had been at pains to explain, she was a magistrate.

Rafferty, earlier inclined to scoff at tales of vanishing cadavers, didn't doubt that she was telling the truth about the missing body. Apart from anything else, her statement hadn't varied by as much as a word from that taken down by Lilley. She had told them she was staying with her daughter and had taken the daughter's dog for a walk. It had been the dog who had led her to the corpse. All that was simple enough. But what she had to tell him next was more worrying and did little to reassure him that the next few days would be anything but difficult.

'I didn't say anything to that young officer,' she told Rafferty, 'as he didn't exactly inspire confidence that one would be believed, but I'm certain the corpse was that of a chap called Maurice Smith.'

Rafferty frowned as another bell rang. Now why did he recognise the name?

Mrs ffinch-Robinson's intelligent grey gaze noted his dilemma. 'His was something of a cause-célèbre about ten years ago. Maurice Smith was charged with raping four young girls. The case was dismissed on a legal technicality on the first day of the trial.' Her firmly chiselled nostrils quivered her disdain for such legal bumbling. 'One of his victims killed herself when Smith was released. As you can imagine, the victims' families were outraged, and made various threats against Smith.'

Rafferty nodded. Details of the case were slowly coming back. He seemed to remember that, of the families that Mrs ffinch-Robinson mentioned, one had done more than threaten. The father had waylaid Smith and given him one hell of a beating, receiving a prison sentence for his pains. 'Excuse me, Mrs ffinch-Robinson, but how did you recognise him? After all, it's ten years since—'

Mrs ffinch-Robinson interrupted him. 'Smith used to live in Burleigh which is where I sit on the bench, and he had come up before me in the Magistrates' Court on several occasions in his teens. His front teeth protruded quite dreadfully. Extraordinary the parents didn't get them seen to, though, of course, the mother was one of those spiritless women you could advise till you were blue in the face. Anyway, the teeth of the corpse were exactly the same. That's why I recognised him. He'd changed very little in other respects, too. There is no doubt in my mind that it was Smith. None at all.'

Reluctant to seem to doubt her, Rafferty had, nevertheless, to question her further. 'Pardon me, but I thought you said he had a hood over his head when you found him, Mrs ffinch-Robinson?'

Although she looked a little put out that he had detected a flaw in her statement, she answered promptly enough. 'So he did. I didn't touch anything, if that's what you're implying. I didn't have to, as the wind must have got under the hood, and it was half off. Naturally, I shone my torch on his face. You should be grateful I did, Inspector.' The Cox's Orange Pippin in her voice became crisper than ever. 'At least you know the body's identity, even if it has gone missing.' She gave him a stern, magisterial, smile. 'Now all you have to do is find it.' She paused before adding, 'and his murderer, of course.'

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