A Thrust to the Vitals (23 page)

Nigel was in his office at the estate agency, as one of his staff reluctantly confirmed upon Rafferty and Llewellyn’s arrival. Like Nigel himself, the estate agency’s decor oozed designer styling; in this instance, black leather and more chrome and mirrors than even B & Q could stock. The place looked more like some fancy knocking shop than the office of an estate agent. The black leather seats were so low that Rafferty thought it likely the elderly, infirm, pregnant or overweight would get out of them only with difficulty. Though he supposed that was the idea: keep your customers captive while you talked them into buying the most expensive property on the books.

Rafferty found both the decor and its ‘captivating’ seating style chilling rather than welcoming. Like Nigel himself and others of his ilk, it was yet another example of the modern Britain and its ethos of greed that he so disliked, though it didn’t seem to have deterred Nigel’s up-market clientele. He could only presume it was an ethos they shared.

Several well-heeled looking couples with more money than taste were seated in the outer office as Rafferty and Llewellyn passed through. They were enthusing about similarly bleakly designed top of the range apartments and converted lofts. More money than taste or sense, was Rafferty’s conclusion as he entered Nigel’s office.

Unsurprisingly, Nigel didn’t look pleased to see them. At first, he tried to deny that he had helped himself to the blank invitation after bamboozling Marcus Canthorpe into buzzing him through the security gate and into his office.

Rafferty shook his head and said, ‘Don’t try to kid a kidder, Nigel. You weren’t invited to the party. You invited yourself. You even had the gall to add your own name to the guest list on Canthorpe’s computer.’

Nigel clearly took this as praise for his derring-do, for he preened a bit and failed to deny Rafferty’s accusation.

‘So, come on, how did you know that if you could gain access to Seward’s home you’d be able to get your hands on one of those party invites?’

As expected, even when shown a still taken from the security tape from Seward’s home, Nigel admitted nothing beyond his innocence, which he proclaimed freely and volubly.

But he didn’t have to admit anything. Rafferty realised, with a blinding flash of insight, just how his cousin had known about the unsecured invitations to the reception. He had inside knowledge, of course: inside knowledge most likely gained via the Farraday twins.

As a youngster, Nigel, never one to lose out on any chance of holding the aces, had taken the trouble to become the twins’ best friend at school. Even then, he had recognised that collectors of potentially lucrative gossip such as the Farraday twins might be worth cultivating.

The determinedly upwardly-mobile Nigel must have been delighted when he learned the twins had gone to work for Sir Rufus Seward. Nigel would have hoped their employment would provide him, too, with an ‘in’ to Seward’s circle.

How wrong he’d been. But, for once, it didn’t delight Rafferty that all his shifty cousin had got for his trouble was a flea in his ear from Seward. Because that illicit invitation placed cousin Nigel, like Mickey, as a suspect in a murder inquiry. It was becoming quite the family affair.

Rafferty might even have felt sorry for his unfortunate cousin, if Mickey hadn’t managed to make sure he was clean out of sympathy for his entire wretched family.

Nigel was still admitting nothing by the time Rafferty and Llewellyn stood up to leave five minutes later. As Llewellyn departed, Rafferty hung back to enquire, ‘And how are the twins since last I saw them?’

He knew his comment had hit the spot when Nigel began a too-rapid blinking of his eyelashes. His protest of ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ was automatic and utterly unconvincing to someone like Rafferty who knew him of old. Even a practised liar like Nigel, who engaged in deceit with the natural aptitude of the born con man, required an audience a little more gullible than his policeman cousin.

‘Oh come on, Nigel, dear,’ Rafferty mocked. ‘I think you know only too well.’ Rafferty’s voice hardened and he added, ‘I’ll tell you what I told your little pals. Knowledge can be dangerous. And so can lying to the police, especially when you’ve caught up in a murder investigation. Think about it,’ he said, before he followed Llewellyn back through the main office and out to the car.

The only thing he was left to ponder — apart, that is, from whether Nigel might actually turn out to be their killer — was why his twin little friends hadn’t taken the invitation for him themselves instead of leaving Nigel to go to the trouble of driving himself all the way to Norwich, talking his way past Canthorpe, and helping himself to the invitation. But maybe that was down to the twins’ base desire to create mischief? They had probably hoped to get Canthorpe into trouble with the boss. After all, he had been the one to buzz Nigel in and give him the opportunity to out-Cinderella Cinders at the council’s swanky reception. Doubtless the twins had hoped that Seward would probe till he discovered exactly how Nigel had acquired the invite. It was the sort of underhand trick the Farradays were famous for.

‘So, what now?’ Llewellyn asked, reminding him, ‘Forensic has come up with nothing incriminating at the scene.’

Rafferty was only too aware of it. He was aware, too, that unless he could find some little chink in the murderer’s armour then he was likely to get away with the crime.

Which, of course, would leave Mickey – and the rest of the family – in limbo. But even this was unlikely to last. Mickey, his ingrate of a brother, was, by the day, becoming more stir-crazy in his damp metal cell. Now, each time he visited his brother, Rafferty expected to find him gone and with all hell let loose in his wake.

But the next problem to rear its head didn’t turn out to be Mickey making a bid for freedom. No, the next event was even more predictable than that. And the fact that Rafferty had totally failed to see it coming gnawed at him, even as he told himself that anyone could be wise after the event.

Chapter Sixteen

‘You told me it would only be for a few days,’ Algy Edwards complained down the phone. ‘But it’s been way more than that. I’m beginning to think you’re taking me for a mug and renting my caravan to some punter for your own profit.’

‘Don’t say that, Algy,’ Rafferty was quick to respond. 'If I was smart enough to persuade a punter to pay me money for an unheated caravan in December, I’d give up coppering. I told you, it’s just a mate who needs to lie low for a while, that’s all. There’s some blokes after him.’ Blokes in dark uniforms with big, shiny buttons…

‘Why? What’s he done? I don’t want to get mixed up with violent gangsters. If—’

‘It’s nothing like that. He’s done nothing, I tell you. It’s just that some bastard’s set him up to take the rap for something that wasn’t his fault.’

That was true enough for Rafferty’s voice to have the ring of truth.

But Algy Edwards’ suspicions weren’t soothed. Nor was his greed. ‘That caravan’s on a prime site.’

Rafferty’s mouth fell open at this outrageous untruth. Prime site? On the east coast in a raw December winter? With no mod-cons? Briefly too gobsmacked to speak, Rafferty could only listen as Algy told him what he considered a fair market rent for his caravan on its ‘prime site’.

‘I want some rent off you or you can tell your friend to bugger off out of it.’

The figure was shocking enough to loosen Rafferty’s tongue. ‘Two hundred and fifty quid a week? For that damp tin can? Are you mad?’

‘Me? No, sunshine, I ain’t mad, but I reckon you might be if you think you’re taking me for a sucker any longer. Two hundred and fifty smackers or your shy, retiring little friend can find some other bolt hole to play hide and seek. Got it?’

Rafferty got it all right. He also got the feeling he’d no idea how he was going to explain the withdrawal of such a sum to Abra’s satisfaction when they were meant to be saving for their wedding.

‘You can meet me tomorrow lunchtime with the money. One o’clock in the
Red Lion
on the High Street. Don’t be late.’

Rafferty pulled a face. ‘Thanks Algy,’ he said, to the dial tone. ‘You’re a real pal.’

Much as his copper’s soul might fight against it, he knew he had no choice but to meet Algy Edwards’ outrageous demands. Where else was he to stash Mickey where he’d be out of the way? His mug shot had been circulated so Rafferty couldn’t risk putting him in a hotel or B and B. He swore with a depth of profanity likely to earn him a penance of twenty Hail Mary’s if Father Kelly was around to hear him. But at least he was saved that particular ignominy.

Rafferty was beginning to wish now that he’d taken his brother to Ma’s; at least it wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg. But blind panic had scattered his ability to think clearly. No way did he want to risk moving Mickey now. He’d just have to cough up and hope Algy didn’t up the ante when Rafferty proved willing to meet his current demand. Algy might well start thinking he’d undercut himself, which was likely to lead him to even more outrageous demands. Rafferty could – just about –stomach that, but what he was most scared of was  that Algy would start wondering just who he had stashed in his caravan. And why…

He might just sniff out the possibility of even greater financial compensation for his trouble. If he decided to investigate further and managed to clock Mickey’s face, he might think all his pay days had come at once, as Seward’s sister had put up a handsome reward for the capture of this murdering miscreant as soon as she knew what she was down for in the will.

No. Rafferty shook his head. The only thing he could do was play it reluctant on the rental front when he met Algy Edwards. Argue his corner, plead poverty. Tell a couple of porkie pies (
Cockney rhyming slang: lies
) along the lines that his temporary tenant had merely chosen his bedroom partners unwisely and had a couple of irate husbands after him and that was the reason he was lying low. Or something….

Rafferty wasn’t sure just how he should play it. All he was sure of was that if he needed to keep Mickey hidden away for a month or even two, his and Abra’s joint bank account was going to have a very big, unexplainable hole in it.

Once he had met Algy Edwards and paid him off for the time being, Rafferty was left to ponder on the nature of suspicion.

Algy had clearly thought Rafferty and his coy caravan tenant were up to no good and had done his best to pump information out of him. As ever, with the scent of further financial gains making his nostrils quiver, Algy’s antennae had gone into overdrive and begun to quiver even more than his scent-overloaded nostrils.

It was with the greatest difficulty that Rafferty had managed to fend him off and act nonchalant. But it was only too evident which way the wind was blowing. No way would he be able to lull Algy’s suspicious soul for much longer. Things in that quarter were becoming more than a little desperate.

Similarly, given the dearth of proof against their murder suspects and even with the contradictory evidence provided by the two security guards and the hotel’s security tape, Rafferty was beginning to think that Bradley
had
seen someone entering Seward’s bedroom late on the night of the reception, only he suspected it hadn’t been the blonde Bradley had conjured up from a mix of imagination, alcohol blur and short sight. Rather, he thought the blonde had been what Bradley had seen because she was what he had expected — wanted — to see, as it would match his expectations given his low regard for his fellow human beings.

Maybe the super could be encouraged to recall more clearly who it was that he had actually seen that night? But then Rafferty remembered who he was dealing with — a bluff, gruff, ‘professional’ Yorkshireman. And he realised that suggesting the super should be hypnotized was never likely to be a runner that got off the starting blocks. Trying to persuade Bradley to agree to being hypnotized wasn’t the answer and never would be.

No, he’d have to carry on trying to do this the hard way. Think, man, think, Rafferty admonished himself. Go over all the suspects and their likely motives again. You’re missing something, something you haven’t thought through thoroughly enough.

In the hope that he would be able to see this elusive ‘something’, when Llewellyn brought in the mid-afternoon mugs of tea, Rafferty collared him and made him go through some ‘what if’ possibilities. It was something they did on every case. It might seem as though they were conjuring possibilities out of thin air — which, they were, of course. But they had had some surprising results in the past, even though Rafferty wasn’t sure whether he insisted they went through the routine partly because it gave him the opportunity to shoot Llewellyn’s theories out of the sky for a change. And if it did, indeed have nothing else to recommend it, this role reversal had a certain novelty value. He admitted it was pretty low, morally speaking, and that he mightn’t love himself in the morning. But the morning seemed far away and a man had to get his pleasures where life — and the fates — allowed.

Llewellyn, now with his thoughts in order, said, ‘Very well. We’ve heard from several sources that Idris Khan was puffed up with pride at the honour of becoming mayor—’

‘Even if it was just because it was Buggins’s turn.’

Llewellyn ignored the interruption and continued. ‘What if, secretly, Khan was actually more concerned with upholding his dignity and reputation as a
man
than he was with that of his mayoral office? That “honour” killing we discussed before, seems, to me to be still a possibility.’

Rafferty pursed his lips, then commented,. ‘As I said before, surely he’d have killed the faithless Mandy too?’

Llewellyn tried again. ‘Very well. As you’ve disposed of that theory, here’s another. What if Randy Rawlins decided to pay Seward back for all the years of humiliation?’

Rafferty shook his head. He’d already been there. ‘He’d have wanted to stick that chisel up Seward’s fat arse rather than his chest. Especially after what Seward had done to him.’