Blood on the Bones (25 page)

Slowly, with a growing feeling of foreboding, he slit open the envelope and quickly perused the contents. The letter was short, as the others had been. And still there was no demand for money. This was getting beyond a joke. Why didn't the bastard stop torturing him and just say what it was he wanted?

He supposed he should at least be thankful he could now talk to Abra about it. He could even discuss this latest letter with Llewellyn if he wanted to, as Abra had persuaded him that it might be a good idea to make use of the logical brain of her cousin in order to figure out a likely identity for the blackmailer. Not, though, that Llewellyn had been either help or comfort. If ever a person had been designed for the description 'Job's Comforter', that person was Dafyd Llewellyn.

‘Be sure our sins will find us out,’ Llewellyn had mournfully intoned immediately after Rafferty had told him about the blackmailer.

Abra wasn't much better. And although she had taken his confession in good part, she was less understanding about the extent of the angst he was suffering from his current investigation. Because, although she felt sorry for the dead Peter Bodham, she was unable to hide her quiet amusement that his current murder investigation meant that a Catholic backslider like him should find himself tangled up with a bunch of nuns.

The only member of Rafferty's family who didn't find his current case a cause for mournful, wise after the fact proclamations, or quiet amusement, was Rafferty's ma.

But Rafferty felt he would rather bear either of the first two options than be forced to listen to any more of his ma's continuing admonishments or her attempts to persuade him to take himself off to St Boniface Church and Father Kelly and confess the evil suspicions that were blackening his soul. After his latest questioning of the priest, he guessed he would receive such a sizable penance that he wouldn't get out of the church for a decade or more. If he got out at all.

God, he thought, if only I can prove one of those ruddy nuns is guilty. It was the only way he would be able to get his mother to shut up about the subject. Or maybe not. Maybe, it would be a guarantee that she would continue to harp on and on about his wicked pursuit of holy women.

If, on the other hand, he managed to prove them all as innocent as his mother thought they were, in his mother's estimation he would practically be elevated to sainthood himself. Sinner or saint. Saint or sinner. He didn't much fancy either title, much preferring to rub along in the middle ground, like most people.

Perhaps, if he wasn't being persecuted by the attentions of this blackmailer, he might have half a chance at solving this case. He stared down at the letter clutched tightly in his hands, his eyes narrowed to slits of frustrated impotence. And as he stared at this missive, barely seeing it, one sentence seemed to hit him squarely between the eyes.

‘What?’ he gasped. ‘But– But– How the hell does this bastard know that?’

No one other than his family – not even Llewellyn – knew that he had nearly killed his sister when they were both still kids. As this particular sentence in the letter claimed:

‘Everyone believed,’ he read, ‘once the suspect was arrested, that your Nigel Blythe alter ego was innocent of the murders of those two girls in the Lonely Hearts’ case. And maybe you were. But then, inspector, they didn't know about your earlier predilection for violence against females, did they? Perhaps, if they had known about your attempt to kill your sister Maggie, they mightn't have been so ready to accept your protestations of innocence.'.

Slowly, unbelievingly, a possibility dawned on him. Could these blackmail letters be one of his family's idea of a joke?

Stunned, Rafferty folded the letter – carefully, as if it might yet blow up in his hands – and put it in his pocket with the others, as he wondered who, amongst his family, possessed a sense of humour so warped that they could do this to him?

But Rafferty really didn't need to think about it for long. For while his family might have more than its share of those who bent the law for their own advantage, none of them was inclined to this level of spite. No, he decided, this wasn't one of his family's idea of a joke. This was revenge, not so pure but very simple.

And what member of his family believed they had reason to extract that revenge? None other than his cousin, Nigel Blythe. The Nigel who had pretended to commiserate with him in his dilemma. His cousin must have nearly bust a gut to prevent himself laughing out loud when he had sought Nigel's advice on the letters.

Rafferty couldn't understand why it hadn't occurred to him before that his cousin, Jerry Kelly – or Nigel Blythe as he currently preferred to call himself – would want to get back at him and cause him as much pain and anxiety as he was capable of drumming up. It was, of course, in retaliation for him being the cause of Nigel's name being bandied about back in April as a possible double murderer.

Now he wondered how he'd let the wool be pulled over his eyes to the extent that he'd never considered his cousin might be the person writing these letters. But then he excused his blindness. Why would he have reason to suspect him? While Nigel might be many things that most decent people despised – the fact that he was an estate agent featuring at the top of most lists – he was family. Rafferty had believed that his cousin – even if Nigel's list of things most despised would certainly feature that institution somewhere near the top of his list – wouldn't stoop as low as blackmail.

Besides, the events that had given rise to the blackmail letters had occurred months ago. Why would his permanently cash-strapped cousin wait so long to extract the readies? Especially when Rafferty himself had provided him with the means, motive and opportunity to put himself in line for a nice little earner in the blackmail line.

Even more curious – why would he, after making the initial approach, fail to even mention money at all?

No wonder the possibility of Nigel as the blackmailer hadn't occurred to him. It wasn't that Nigel was such a saintly sort; Rafferty was aware that Nigel could raise spite to previously never achieved heights if he had a mind to. It had been the blackmailer's failure to demand money that had meant he had overlooked Nigel for the role. Why would the permanently cash-strapped Nigel, with his ruinously expensive tastes, neglect to claim the prize? Especially when, for all his high hopes and ambitions, Nigel had yet to make his income match his expenditure.

But the more Rafferty considered the matter, the more his mind went round in circles. He would have to wait and hope his cousin enlightened him. Still, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that the role of blackmailer suited Nigel's personality to a 'T': it provided him with an avenue both for his vindictiveness and for his avaricious desire for money. The latter aspect of his cousin's character made his failure to gain financially from his correspondence even more inexplicable. No wonder, Rafferty thought, that he had failed to consider Nigel in his list of potential blackmailers. But, in spite of the oddness of the money angle of the business, he was certainly considering him now. More than considering. He was certain that Nigel Blythe was guilty as charged.

And to think he had believed that Nigel – apart from the continuing odd, sly dig – had long since put any propensity for revenge, behind him.

But now the scales had dropped from his eyes. The letters made clear that his dear cousin had been plotting his revenge for months.

Clearly, cousin Nigel, the devious bastard, was a believer that revenge was a dish best eaten cold.

It was certainly colder than Rafferty's anger, which, fuelled by the worry he had suffered since the first letter's arrival, was quickly raised to the white-hot heat of rage.

And while he admitted to himself that Nigel – Jerry Kelly as was, before his upper income bracket property buying and selling clientele had prompted the move to the more upmarket Nigel Blythe moniker – might feel he had good reason for grudge-bearing, his way of acting out that grudge was way out of order.

Yet, Rafferty was fair-minded enough to acknowledge that he had been the one who had caused Nigel's name to be bandied about as a suspected double murderer in the Lonely Hearts' case. Nigel had been sly enough to make him believe he'd put any rankles about it behind him. After all, it had been a little over six months ago. But clearly, Nigel, in the world of grudge bearers, was an Olympic contender.

And while Rafferty's rage still burned, it wasn't so out of control that he didn't realise he couldn't just blunder his way into his cousin's flash apartment and throw accusations about. Like Father Roberto Kelly, Nigel knew way too many of his guilty secrets for that. Stoking the fires of Nigel's resentment wouldn't be a sensible move.

But while he would be denied the opportunity to let fly at Nigel, Rafferty, none the less, intended to tackle him about the letters. At the least, he hoped he would be able to persuade his cousin to confirm that he, rather than one of Rafferty's fellow ex Made In Heaven lonely hearts, was the letter writer. Such a confirmation would at least save him any potential embarrassment – or worse – at the hands of the Made in Heaven lot should he ever manage to come up with a few questions of the non-self-incriminatory sort to put to them..

Perhaps, Rafferty thought, he should go round to Nigel's apartment after work this evening, and get his wretched cousin to admit that he, rather than someone with a motive far worse than spite, was the writer of the blackmailing letters.

But as there were some few hours before he could put his accusations to his cousin, face-to-face, Rafferty tried to put all thought of Nigel to the back of his mind and think about the current investigation.

He was helped in this by Llewellyn's return with the confirmation that the late Mrs Ansell had indeed remembered Peter Bodham in her will.

'She altered her will shortly before she died, to leave him a substantial legacy, one he never took up, which is yet another confirmation, should we need one, that Peter Bodham and Annemarie Jones' illegitimate son are one and the same.'

Rafferty nodded. But then they had pretty much suspected he would be. Getting confirmation though, as he had earlier noted, didn't bring them any further forward. Identifying their cadaver still left them with the difficulty of finding someone with a motive to kill him. And they were no closer to discovering who that person might be and what their motive was now than they had been before.

But then, as his gaze fell on the topmost pile of bureaucratic bumf in his pending tray with its predictable title of: Why Criminals Commit Crime and recalled what actions of his own had provided the blackmailer with his weapon, he began to get a glimmer of an idea as to why this particular crime had been committed.

He said nothing to Llewellyn, though. He'd had glimmers of ideas before that had died in the face of the facts. He wasn't about to offer this one up prematurely for his sergeant's brand of clinical dissection.

When Rafferty drove round
to his cousin's apartment on his way home that evening in order to confront him, Nigel didn't even trouble to deny that he had been the writer of the blackmail letters. In fact, although clearly a touch peeved that he'd been found out, Nigel seemed rather pleased with himself and inclined to gloat.

‘Bet those letters got you nicely rattled, didn't they?’ he taunted while vainly checking via the mantel mirror perched above the Italian marble fireplace that the hair he had raked back from his forehead had flopped forward again in a satisfactory manner.

Narcissus R Us, thought Rafferty as he stared at the preening cousin who had caused him such anguish. He'd like to smash his vain face in. But, of course, this was merely another temptation he daren't give into.

‘Serves you right,’ Nigel turned back from admiring himself. ‘Count yourself lucky that letter writing is all I did. Because after all the trouble you caused me back in April, I was tempted to contact your boss and bring him up to speed on a few things.’

Rafferty did his best to conceal the shudder that this revelation brought. But he refused to give Nigel the satisfaction of admitting that he had had him seriously rattled for days. Instead, he remarked in a throwaway manner: ‘You've had your fun now, so can I take it that you're going to call it a day on the letter writing front?’

Nigel shrugged his designer suited shoulders. ‘No point in continuing with them now that you know it was me.’ He smirked. ‘Though it might be amusing to think up another means of getting under your skin.’

‘And why would you want to do that?’ Rafferty demanded. ‘As I said, you've had your fun and–’

‘Had my fun?’ Nigel's previously nonchalantly leaning figure sprang indignantly away from his Italian marble mantelpiece. ‘Do you have any idea how little fun I've had since you and your previously pathetic love life started the rumour that I was a double murderer? This might come as news to you, JAR,’ contemptuously, he used the family nickname spelt from Rafferty's initials, ‘but strangely enough, most girls don't fancy the prospect of dating a man who's had his name splashed round for all the wrong reasons. Being branded a dangerous head case tends to worry the ladies that the foreplay might involve an axe or three.’

Nigel paused, then. And as if remembering something more pleasant, his gaze became unfocused, and a smile played cat and mouse with his lips as he added, ‘Apart, that is, from the weird ones who find dicing with such danger a great turn on.’

‘There you are then,’ Rafferty exclaimed, glad to discover that his cousin's fifteen minutes of fame hadn't been all bad. ‘Sounds to me like you've had some fun you wouldn't have had but for me.’

Nigel's gaze narrowed unappreciatively. ‘There's fun and fun. Like there's weird and weirder, dear boy. One or two of those ladies were so into S & M that they scared the life out of me. And they know where I live.’

Rafferty restrained the urge to grin and give Nigel an inkling of just how much ‘S’ rather than 'M', pleasure this information afforded him. There was no point in antagonising his cousin and giving him reason to make good his threat to try some other means of meting out a retaliatory punishment.