Love Lies Bleeding (3 page)

‘I suppose I must have done. Yes.’

She gazed at Rafferty from troubled eyes and said, ‘It's odd and you'll think me dreadfully callous, I'm sure, but I can't
remember
killing him. Isn't that strange?’

Her long slender fingers clutched each other, as, in an anguished voice, she all but pleaded for an answer from Rafferty. ‘How can I have forgotten? You'd expect the memory of such an act to be a vivid one. But I can't remember it at all. All I remember is finding myself stretched out on top of Ray, both of us covered in blood.’

She shook her head. ‘I suppose I must have shut my mind off. Afterwards.’ She shuddered then, as she added in a whisper so faint that Rafferty had to strain to hear what she said, ‘The doctor said I was suffering from shock. Delayed shock. No doubt, memory of it will come back to me in time.’

‘Can you tell me why you killed him? How?’

‘As to the why—’ She broke off and stared sadly at him from the large, luminous grey eyes that Rafferty remembered so well. ‘Raymond — my husband — and I had been arguing a lot lately,’ she said in a voice so low that again Rafferty had to lean close to the bed to hear her. ‘Nothing I did seemed to please him.’

When she said nothing further for a moment, he thought she had relapsed into her previous state of fugue. She stared beyond him as if she no longer saw him and had already forgotten the second half of his question.

He prompted her before she disappeared back into the nether world. He wanted to hear it from her own lips; it was the only way, he thought, that he would be able to dispel his doubts. ‘And
how
did you kill him?’

‘A knife. With a knife.’ She shuddered again. Her eyes rounded in horror as she added, ‘There was so much blood. It was all over him, all over me. How could I do that when I loved him so much?’

Rafferty shook his head. He had no answers for her.

She looked down, as if she expected still to be wearing her bloodstained dress, and frowned at finding herself in a hospital gown.

‘My clothes,’ she began fretfully.

‘Don't worry about them for now. We've got them safe.’

‘I see. Thank you. It's just — just that my husband gave me that dress for my last birthday. I don't want anything to happen to it.’

As Rafferty watched, the expression in her eyes turned from tragic to appalled, as it hit her that this was one dress she would never want to wear again.

After that, a silence fell between them, broken only by Llewellyn's return. As he entered the small hospital room, his gaze met Rafferty's and he gave a brief nod.

Llewellyn's confirmation that Felicity Raine's husband was dead made her claim that she had killed him the more believable. But as he gazed at her delicate face and the figure so slender it barely left a trace under the dark blue duvet, Rafferty was again conscious of a glimmer of doubt. For, in spite of the bloodied state of her when she had turned up at the police station, in spite of her own anguished confession, her slender figure made it difficult for him to conjure up a picture of her knifing anyone, much less the husband she professed to love. Apart from anything else, it was so unusual for a woman to use a knife as the means to kill that the number of such cases made up a tiny percentage of female killings.

She seemed to have retreated into herself again, Rafferty noticed. He wasn't too worried about it, though. For now, he was content with just the bare facts. They could get the rest later.

He followed Llewellyn out to the corridor. ‘So, let's hear it,’ he invited.

‘It's just as she told you,’ Llewellyn replied, grim-faced. ‘According to Hanks, when he and Tim Smales broke in they found Mr Raine sprawled out on his back on the living-room floor, covered in blood. The knife was still in his chest.’

Rafferty frowned. ‘She attacked him from the
frontV

Llewellyn nodded.

Rafferty took a moment or two to absorb the information, then he asked, ‘Little chap, was he?’

‘No. Actually, I asked Hanks the same question and he said he was tall and muscular.’

Rafferty frowned at this discovery. He gazed through the window of the small side room to the patient in the bed. This case was rapidly becoming more bizarre, more surreal with each succeeding discovery, he thought. It seemed this was a thought that Llewellyn shared. He too let his gaze settle on Felicity Raine and his next words echoed Rafferty's thoughts.

‘To look at her, you wouldn't think she would have the strength to kill him. Mrs Raine is slender, seven and a half stone if that, and can be no more than five foot three or four.’

Rafferty nodded. ‘And looking as if butter wouldn't melt.’ In the face of the evidence, he pushed his doubts aside, hardened his heart and said firmly, ‘But melt it did.’

He instructed Lizzie Green to stay with Mrs Raine and set off towards the stairs. T suppose we'd better go and find out when she's likely to be released into our custody. If she
has
killed her husband, I want no one to be able to claim later that she wasn't fit for questioning.’

The home of
Felicity and Raymond Raine was situated in a quiet country lane lined with the wild flowers of an English summer: As they got out of the car, Rafferty recognised the deep red blooms of great burnet, the pretty pink of Campion and the dense white clusters of meadowsweet. Its strong perfume rose up to greet him as he brushed past.

It was a large, attractive old house of higgledy-piggledy construction. With its ‘double pile’ design and several gables as well as the small-paned windows, Rafferty guessed it dated back to the sixteenth century. Sometime, long ago, before such things had to be passed by planning committees, a previous owner had built two side extensions off the main house which only added to its picture-book prettiness as they rambled off in a picturesque fashion, as if keen to demonstrate their independence from the main structure. The currently whitewashed walls even had the requisite strongly perfumed old-fashioned roses climbing up trelliswork either side of the stable door, which was currently propped open to ease the many comings and goings of the police team.

After PC Smales noted their arrival on his clipboard, Rafferty and Llewellyn climbed into their protective gear, slipped under the crime-scene tape and entered the house.

With the fragrant scents of the roses and meadowsweet still lingering in his nostrils Rafferty gasped as, in their place, an altogether stronger smell invaded his senses. The flower perfumes couldn't compete with the pungent, sickly-sweet aroma of three-day-old death. And after the beauty of the outside, the scene that met their eyes as they entered the living room was like a take from a horror movie. Although aware that this wasn't make-believe, part of Rafferty was still waiting for some invisible director to shout, ‘Cut!’

As Llewellyn had said, Raymond Raine lay sprawled on his back on the now-bloodied dove-grey carpet. The knife sticking out of his chest looked like one commonly used in kitchens. It was large, with a black handle decorated with an ornate pattern in brass-work.

The fact that he was lying on the floor some distance from either of the large settees caused Rafferty to shake his head as again he wondered that the petite Felicity Raine had managed to overpower such a well-built man. Now if he had been asleep on the settee … Unless she had drugged him first? But the post-mortem would tell them if that was the case.

The room was tastefully furnished in a pleasing mix of modern and antique furniture. A beautifully carved chest that Rafferty guessed was Elizabethan stood under the casement window. The plain, white-painted walls of the room made the dark wood appear to glow even more darkly. Rafferty just had time to make these brief observations before Dr Sam Dally arrived.

‘God,’ he complained, as if offended that the daily grind should force such sights upon his delicate sensibilities, ‘the place looks like an abattoir.’ He sniffed. ‘Smells like it, too. And even if they
do
say the female is more deadly than the male, it's hard to believe that little slip of a thing did this.’

‘Not you too, Sam,’ Rafferty complained. Although as Abra had rightly suspected, part of him felt sorry for Felicity Raine, who seemed more confused than evil, he was coming round to the belief that she
had
murdered her husband. They had her confession and all the circumstantial evidence backed it up. It was seldom they had such a straightforward case and Rafferty was determined not to let his own pity or Llewellyn's and Dally's remarks influence him. Like most men, they would be susceptible to a pretty face.

Besides, Rafferty reminded himself, you have the pretty face of Abra at home. He wanted to keep her sweet and, to encourage her to be sweeter than she was currently being, he had organised a special evening for them both, so was relieved not to have a difficult murder case to solve right now. He certainly wasn't about to look this particular confession gift horse in the mouth, or any other part of its anatomy.

As Dally set about his examination of the dead man, Rafferty and Llewellyn, side by side and with an unspoken but obviously shared destination, left the living room and its bloody cadaver and went into the hall in search of the kitchen.

As Rafferty had already observed, the Raines’ home was detached and spacious. It consisted of the roomy lounge they had already seen; as well as a formal dining room nearly as large, with a long, dark table that could seat ten; a breakfast room at the back, on the sunny side of the house, its used dishes from the morning of Raine's death still on the table; and a smaller study across the hall from the dining room, which facts Rafferty's quick door-opening and closing revealed as he searched for the kitchen.

The fourth door Rafferty tried led down a short passage to the kitchen. Another door off to the left led into the breakfast room, he saw as he poked his head through.

He glanced round the kitchen. Instantly, his gaze lit on the knife block. It was sitting on one of the expensive-looking solid-oak kitchen units that lined the walls. There was one knife missing, he noted; the rest of the set matched the largest one that was currently protruding from Raymond Raine's chest. The decorative brass-work on the kitchen knives was visible above the wooden block and was the same pattern as on the murder weapon.

Rafferty called out to Adrian Appleby, the head of the Scene of Crime team, and told him to get the knife block and its contents photographed
in situ
and then bagged up.

Appleby nodded and shouted through to Lance Edwards, the police photographer.

While Lance began to take some shots of the knives Rafferty gazed out of the kitchen window. Beyond the large, plant-filled and obviously modern addition of the Victorian-style conservatory that led off the kitchen and breakfast room, he could see the well-stocked garden, its end lapped by the waters of the River Tiffey.

Apart from the hushed conversations of his colleagues in the kitchen and living room, all he could hear was the sound of birdsong through the open window. And as he absorbed the glories of nature to counterbalance the pictures in his head, a grey heron, with a beguiling grace given its long legs, landed on the opposite bank of the river. Rafferty held his breath for a moment's delight in the midst of horror, before marvelling that murder — and such a murder — had occurred at this tranquil spot; the setting looked like a veritable Garden of Eden. But clearly it was an Eden no longer. The snake had done its work well.

Across the river, the heron raised its slender head. It stood motionless for some moments as if taking stock. Perhaps it had caught the taint of blood and death wafted towards it on the light breeze, for it immediately took wing, flapping its way into flight in a leisurely manner as it uttered a deep, harsh
krau.
Airborne, it tucked its legs behind it as elegantly as a ballerina before vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.

Rafferty, reminded by the bird's sudden flight that he too ought to get moving, touched Llewellyn's arm and said, ‘Let's make a start getting the team organised. If Mrs Raine does retract her confession, we'll need letters, bank statements, et cetera, anything that might provide evidence as to the state of the Raines’ marriage. Oh, and see if you can find an address book with the family and friends listed. But you know the drill.’

Llewellyn nodded and made for the kitchen door.

Rafferty called after him before he disappeared. “I'll be with Sam’ — no doubt, he groaned to himself, given the state of the body, he would be regaled with a selection of Sam Dally's more black-humoured observations. ‘I'll see you out front when we've both done here.’ He paused. ‘By the way, I meant to ask if you noticed that cottage we passed, twenty yards closer to the main road?

Llewellyn nodded.

‘I shall want to have a word with the occupants as a matter of urgency. They may be able to tell us something useful. With the two houses isolated together in the lane, maybe the close proximity encouraged a greater intimacy than most modern-day neighbours manage.’

Llewellyn nodded again and disappeared.

Rafferty strolled slowly back through the house before thrusting his head through the doorway into the living room, where Sam Dally had just finished his examination of Mr Raine's body.

‘Don't be shy, Rafferty.’ Sam, although he had his back towards the door, seemed to have a sixth sense where teasing Rafferty was concerned. ‘Come away in. There's no need to hover in the doorway like some green probationer.’

Rafferty grimaced at Sam's sly comment and came further into the room. To outface the team's concealed grins at Dally's comment, he asked, ‘So what do you reckon as to the time of death? Does the approximate time tally with what Felicity Raine said?’

Sam's chins gave a turkey-wobble as he nodded. ‘He's certainly been dead over seventy-two hours.’ Dally sat back on his heels and glanced over his shoulder at Rafferty, who, in spite of Sam's invitation, still hovered in the doorway. ‘Rigor's come and gone and bacterial action's given the trunk the usual greenish tint, but it has yet to reach the extremities.’