Bad Blood (23 page)

To avoid the voicing of these thus far mercifully silent questions, Rafferty roared away from the Bacon Lane back entrance to the police station with what he hoped was sufficient turbo-thrust to render Llewellyn speechless as the G-forces encouraged his tongue to dance a tango with his tonsils.

When he and Llewellyn arrived at the Parkview sheltered apartments, it was to find the residents gathered in reception, in the process of having a meeting to discuss the block's security.

As soon as they entered, Rafferty heard Amelia Frobisher's piercing voice; it drowned out the voices and opinions of the other residents. When she spotted Rafferty, she surged through the gathered residents like a battle-trimmed galleon with all her be-frilled pennants flying and buttonholed him.

‘Inspector,’ she trilled. ‘We've just been discussing how best to increase our security in view of the attack on poor dear Clara.’

Rafferty noted her delicate reluctance to use the word ‘murder’.

‘Perhaps, Inspector,’ Amelia Frobisher went on, ‘We could ask you for some advice?’

Rafferty was unwillingly put on the spot; he had already concluded that the security measures at the sheltered apartments were excellent – certainly, the security was far superior to anything that most people had. And given that the evidence pointed to Clara Mortimer being killed by someone who knew her, then, clearly, it was an ‘inside’ job and no amount of security could have made a scrap of difference.

Reluctantly, he turned to face his interlocutor. Resisting the urge to throw off the bony but persistent and surprisingly strong grip that Amelia Frobisher had on his arm, he said, ‘Maybe you should consider installing a camera? Of course, you would need to appoint an operator or organise a schedule for residents to replace the film and so on, and it would be expensive, but–‘

‘What a wonderful idea,’ Amelia Frobisher gushed. ‘Why didn't we think of that?’ she demanded of her fellow residents.

‘We did.’ In a barely heard monotone, Rita Atkins added, ‘But as it seems pretty certain that Mrs Mortimer wasn't murdered by an outsider, even if we'd had the camera, she'd still be dead.’

‘Dear Rita,’ Miss Frobisher trilled frostily. ‘Must you be quite so blunt?’

Rita Atkins shrugged. ‘Blunt? Call it that if you like. I call it facing reality. I don't understand why you seem so reluctant to do that.’

A hectic flush suffused Amelia Frobisher's thin features. Rita Atkins's remark seemed to have hit a sensitive spot.

But as Rafferty recalled the impressive collection of invitations with which Amelia Frobisher adorned her mantelpiece, he wondered if Rita Atkins, like himself, suspected that the invitations had been purchased and inscribed by Amelia herself. Was Rita, in retaliation for Amelia's condescension, getting her own back with the well-aimed dig?

I might only be the lowly warden, she seemed to be saying, but I don't have to stoop to sending myself fake invitations to non-existent family events.

Mrs Atkins turned to Rafferty. ‘It's true though, isn't it, Inspector? That Clara Mortimer wouldn't have been saved if we'd had a camera videoing everyone who approached the entrance?’

Reluctant to agree and betray in which direction his suspicions were heading – although Rita Atkins, for one, apparently had no trouble following the clues – Rafferty merely remarked, ‘As to that, I'd rather wait till we've made an arrest before I commit myself.’

Amelia Frobisher rallied and enquired crisply. ‘And are you any nearer to making an arrest, Inspector?’

Her manner irritated him. Clearly, police inspectors were on a par with sheltered housing wardens in Amelia Frobisher's world.

Fortunately, just then, Rafferty's brain thrust a timely and previously unconsidered clue to the forefront of his mind. It brought an immediate surge of confidence and to the surprise of Llewellyn, he replied boldly to Amelia Frobisher's enquiry.

‘We're not far from making an arrest,’ he assured her.

This remark caused much excited speculative chatter and many exchanged glances amongst the gathered anxious residents, most whom stared appraisingly at him as if doubtful whether to believe him or not.

But as he thought further on this newly revealed clue, Rafferty began to feel more confident he was at last on the right trail. After all, as Mrs Atkins had so bluntly pointed out, the evidence indicated that Clara Mortimer's murderer was someone she knew. And as Mrs Mortimer had been a solitary, reserved woman, her personal acquaintances formed a limited circle…

The thought brought the reminder that he had yet to re-interview Freddie Talbot. And in spite of Amelia Frobisher's claim that Talbot had been seen hanging round the apartment block for several early mornings in a row, Rafferty was unable to shrug off the suspicion that Miss Frobisher's reporting of same held more than a smidgeon of jealous spite.

Although Amelia Frobisher nodded as if satisfied by his conviction that an early arrest was on the cards, to his surprise, she failed to question him further. For once, she had little to say for herself and allowed the conversation to continue without her supplying the main contribution or guiding it the way she wanted it to go.

Rafferty found himself wondering if, after her revelations about Talbot's early morning appearances at the apartment block, she was eagerly anticipating his arrest. Amelia Frobisher had certainly done her best to make them suspicious of the man. Talbot's vanity alone would increase the suspicion that his humiliating and public rejection by Clara Mortimer in the apartment lobby should encourage a desire for revenge on the woman who had caused the humiliation.

Harry Mortimer seemed equally subdued. It wasn't until Rafferty and Llewellyn had accompanied him in the lift to his third floor apartment at Mortimer's request, that they learned the reason for Mortimer's subdued mien.

Rafferty discovered it was his turn to be surprised.

'I can't go on any more,' Mortimer told them. ‘I've decided to own up. I killed Clara.’

In spite of
the serious nature of his revelations, Hal Mortimer's lips parted in a wry smile and he said, ‘Just another squalid little domestic, Inspector. I'm afraid it won't bring you much glory.’

He turned towards the door of his living room and asked, ‘Should I pack a bag?'

Puzzled, Rafferty held up a hand. ‘Hold on a minute.'

What had prompted this confession? he wondered. Surely, his own over-confident assertion in the apartments' reception area that he shortly expected to make an arrest wouldn't have seriously rattled a man like Mortimer?

'This is all a bit sudden, isn't it?' he asked. 'Why have you decided to confess now? Why not before?'

Mortimer hesitated for a moment. Then he explained with a, sudden, deprecating smile that as quickly faded, ‘Let's just say I'm no better at doing the right thing than the next man, Inspector. But, wouldn't you say it's better to do the right thing late rather than never?'

Rafferty – given his own failure to 'do the right thing' by Abra and the baby - shifted uncomfortably at this last statement. But as Mortimer continued, he didn't have time to examine the statement for hidden meanings.

'I've spent a lifetime seeing my family suffer because of my actions.’ Mortimer shrugged. ‘I suppose I just felt it was time I held my hands up and faced up to my responsibilities.' He paused. 'It's funny, when I think I've spent a lifetime wriggling out of responsibility and leaving others to carry the can. You can only wriggle for so long, I suppose and this is one responsibility I can't dump on others.

'Now,' he added, in a surprisingly upbeat tone, 'you didn't say – but should I pack that bag?’

Rafferty nodded absently. In spite of his disagreement with Llewellyn about who was most likely to have murdered Clara Mortimer and his previous, confident response to the Parkview Apartment residents that he expected to make an arrest, the suspect he had had in mind hadn't been Harry Mortimer.

Although not usually one to look askance at a gift horse or its mouth, Rafferty couldn't help but wonder what had prompted Mortimer's confession. It couldn't have been encouraged by the fear that they were about to arrest him. How could it? Rafferty reasoned. He must know that all they had was circumstantial evidence – the circumstance that he had deceived them at first as to his identity and that he seemed likely to gain handsomely from Clara Mortimer's death.

Rafferty left it to Llewellyn to accompany Mortimer to his bedroom to supervise the packing while he sat down and further pondered this latest event. It was true, he acknowledged, that. Harry Mortimer had the perfect motive, he thought;, Clara had been a wealthy woman in spite of the presumed depredations made by her feckless husband and daughter down the years. He had also had the means and the opportunity, all three strands of the case against him further strengthened by the suspect and belated alibi provided by Mortimer himself which had been backed by both his daughter and grandson. They were still awaiting confirmation or otherwise that as she claimed, Jane had been in the Laundromat at the time her mother was murdered. The Laundromat manager who she claimed had left a note on the door had gone off on holiday according to his employers and wasn't due back for another week. Did Mortimer know that this manager's return would reveal that Jane had again lied to them? And had this prompted him, for the first time in his life, to do the decent thing by his troubled daughter and take the rap for her?

It was a possibility, Rafferty thought. Though given Mortimer's previous careless abandonment of that same daughter, it was not a particularly likely one. But perhaps I'm being contrary and Mortimer's confession is no more than the plain truth.

Certainly, Harry and Clara Mortimer had never divorced; if she hadn't made a will – which both Rafferty and Llewellyn now agreed was looking increasingly unlikely – Mortimer must expect to be in line for a substantial sum on her death – even if he had to go through the courts to get it.

And yet… and yet… In spite of Mortimer's sudden confession, in spite of the circumstantial evidence, Rafferty still harboured doubts as to the man's guilt. – and more than doubts— about Harry Mortimer's confession. But Harry Mortimer's admission of guilt meant the case was over. Strangely, although his mind chased after elusive will-of-the wisps of evidence against suspects he felt more likely to be guilty of Clara Mortimer's murder, there was no gainsaying the fact that by the time Llewellyn returned with Mortimer, packed bag in hand, he was no nearer to finding convincing evidence against these suspects. Left with no alternative after Mortimer's confession, Rafferty knew he had to take the man into custody. After cautioning him and advising him of his rights, they brought Mortimer downstairs, put him in the back of the car and drove to the station.

But although Harry Mortimer's admission of guilt meant the case was over, Rafferty still felt there was unfinished business. And although, back at the station, he accepted the congratulations of his colleagues, he wasn't happy. Something about the case still niggled him. What was it?

Perhaps it was the timing of Mortimer's confession? Why had he chosen to hold his hands up now? What event in his life could have encouraged it?

Rafferty's mobile rang and interrupted his thoughts shortly after they had brought Mortimer through to the Charge Room for processing. And as his sister, Maggie's, anxious voice echoed in his ear, all the doubts and questions about the murder investigation flew from his mind.

'I'm at the hospital, Joe,’ she began in a strangely subdued voice that was so unlike his sister. 'It's–‘

‘Don't tell me something's happened to Gemma? Or little Rambo? Wha–-?‘

‘No. Gemma and Rambo are fine. It's Abra. She's lost the baby.’

‘Lost the baby? But she can't have.’ Illogically, he thought but we haven't even made up our minds what we're going to do about it yet. This thought was followed by another – how did his sister even know about the pregnancy? Unless his ma-

But this line of thought hadn't proceeded far before his sister, who must have guessed the way his mind was working, interrupted.

‘Abra's been spending a lot of time with us, Joe, with Gemma and the baby. She swore me to secrecy, which is why I couldn't let on, to you or ma.’

That explained why Abra had never been home when he called at her flat, why she had never returned his increasingly desperate ansafone messages. Surely, she hadn't been at his sister's house while he'd been babysitting?

Again, his sister's voice broke into his unwelcome thoughts. ‘Naturally, it came pouring out. Why didn't you tell us about the pregnancy, Joe?’

‘I-I–‘

Maggie interrupted his spluttered attempts to explain his less than heroic behaviour.

‘Never mind. It's too late now. But Abra's very upset. You'd better get here as soon as you can. She's on the same ward that Gemma was on,’ she told him.

‘Right. Yes. Of course. I'll come now. Tell Abra… Tell her. No, I'll tell her myself,’ he said before he ended the call.

What am I to tell her? He wondered as he whispered a brief explanation to Llewellyn before he raced off to the car.

Hesitantly, with a guiltily furtive air, Rafferty entered the side ward that Abra occupied. He glanced at Maggie who sat by the bedside. She shrugged and shook her head.