Kith and Kill

Chapter One-2

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Joseph Rafferty stretched languorously before the living room fire, looked through the upmarket gift catalogue that his sister Maggie had given him and tried to put his mind to coming up with some ideas as to what they could buy his ma for the triple celebration.

It would have been his late and favourite gran’s ninetieth birthday and was the thirtieth anniversary of his father’s death as well as what would have been his seventieth birthday. Strange to die on your birthday.

His father had died because he’d celebrated too well the night before his birthday and had got careless on the scaffolding on the actual day. But at least he was in good company. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who had died on his birthday? Llewellyn would know.

He lifted his glass and took a contemplative sip of his Jameson’s whiskey. He still wasn’t sure they should even be buying Ma anything for this triple whammy occasion. He thought it morbid. It seemed strange to be celebrating their long-dead father’s birth and death day and even stranger to be buying Ma a present for it. It was his sisters’ idea of course, and one he’d been reluctantly talked into.

Rafferty’s father had died when he was twelve. At least he’d thought he was twelve when his Da had died, but his sister, Maggie had gainsaid him. ‘It can’t be the thirtieth anniversary of Dad’s death,’ he’d protested. ‘Because I was twelve when he died.’

‘No, you weren’t. You were eleven. Just turned eleven, at that. I remember,’ said Maggie, ‘you had this desire to be twelve when you’d just turned eleven. You thought twelve was the golden age to be. Ma encouraged you, always saying you were in your twelfth year. Do you not remember?’

‘All I remember is wanting to be older. Old enough to be the man of the house after Dad died and twelve had a nice ring to it.’

‘Well, you weren’t twelve, you were eleven. And Dad’s been dead thirty years this November.’

Rafferty sighed, and his gaze returned to the catalogue. He couldn’t recall noting the anniversary in the past; not the tenth one or the twentieth. What was so special about the thirtieth one, anyway? It struck him as an odd thing to celebrate. And he wasn’t exactly one for doing the ‘done’ thing, but he secretly rather wondered if this wasn’t a bit infra-dig, as his sergeant, Dafyd Llewellyn, might say.

And what the hell were they supposed to give her? A fishing rod? A silver beer tankard? Part shares in a fancy woman? Was he supposed to buy her gold jewellery for herself? Or perhaps a gold bricklayer’s trowel? God knew she had everything else she wanted. Was there even a precedent for this sort of thing that they could follow?

Rafferty leaned back against the settee and stared into the fire for inspiration. Not finding any, he turned to his wife, Abra, beside him on the still good-looking leather settee that they’d bought shortly before their June wedding, and mentioned his difficulty.

‘A gold trowel? Are you mad?’ Abra looked at him in astonishment. ‘What on earth would your mother want with a gold trowel? Never mind the likely cost, with gold being the price it is.’

She stretched a hand out and said, ‘Let me have a look at that catalogue.’

Rafferty handed it to her with the hope that she would soon be taking charge of the present-buying in its entirety. The family had decided to club together to get Ma’s present; that way, they could buy her something decent. His sister, Maggie, had passed the upmarket catalogue to him, presumably in the hope that he would take over the gift choosing. If Abra didn’t take it up, the baton would be passed back to his sister with expedition.

Soon the room echoed to squeals of ‘Ooh. I like that’ and ‘That would suit me’ and ‘Wow, that is so me’, that Rafferty, keen to preserve what remained of his financial probity, snatched the book back.

‘This isn’t supposed to be about you, my sweet.’

‘I know. More’s the pity.’ Abra had turned down the corners of several pages and she drew his attention to them. ‘You might bear these in mind for my Christmas presents.’

‘What? All of them?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Get your hand off my wallet, woman, and take another look through. For Ma this time.’

Abra sighed and reached for the catalogue. She riffled swiftly through the pages and stabbed various articles with her nail. ‘Your ma would like this,’ a chunky gold necklace with a matching, chunky price tag. Another chunky ditto and a diamond ring the equal of anything Burton had given Elizabeth Taylor. ‘She likes her jewellery heavy.’

‘She does?’

‘God, Joe, for a policeman, you’re terribly unobservant. I don’t know how you managed to get to the rank of Inspector.’

Neither did Rafferty. He lacked the academic intelligence that seemed to be all the rage in the modern police service. Luckily, he seemed to have other talents just as useful to a cop–like actually being able to nick villains. But mad extravagance wasn’t one of his attributes. ‘I’m sure Ma would be just as happy with something less ostentatious. I thought you women were supposed to dress more discreetly as you got older.’

‘Huh. And I bet it was a man who said it. Sod discretion. Grow old disgracefully, that’s what I say and I’m sure your mother would agree with me. Besides, think of the swanking she can do to the neighbours. You only have a seventieth birthday once and seeing as he died on his birthday, it’s a double celebration of his life. And even if your Dad’s not here to celebrate it, if we’re doing it, we should do it in style.’

Rafferty sighed once more, drained his whiskey and leaned over. ‘How much was that necklace again?’