The Hanging Tree (2 page)

After Mrs
ffinch-Robinson left, Rafferty checked Smith's history. A colleague at
Burleigh, as long on the job as himself, was able to confirm all that Mrs
ffinch-Robinson had said and more and it was a pensive Rafferty who called
Llewellyn in on his return and explained what had happened in his absence.

'You believe her?' Llewellyn asked.

With a wry smile, Rafferty nodded. 'I think we can take it that Mrs
ffinch-Robinson wasn't hallucinating. She's a magistrate, no less, and the type
to take Harrods trips, not LDS ones.'

'No chance it might be a suicide? After the shock of finding a body,
even magistrates can get their facts wrong. It was dark, remember.'

'No chance at all I should think,' Rafferty told him. ‘And she had a
torch.’ Of course, Llewellyn hadn't met Mrs ffinch-Robinson, he reminded
himself. 'According to the witness, the body not only had that hood over his
head, but his hands were also bound behind his back. No, I'm convinced she was
telling the plain, unvarnished truth.'

He wished he could say otherwise. Mrs ffinch-Robinson would make a
wonderful showing in the witness box —confident, firm, and not to be swayed by
the defence counsel's tricks. But first, as she had mentioned, they had not
only to find the body, they had also to catch the murderer — without him, their
star turn would remain off-stage, probably giving the producer hell from the
wings.

After speaking to his Burleigh colleague, Rafferty had done some more
digging and now he filled Llewellyn in on the rest. 'Smith moved from Burleigh
to Rawston after the aborted rape trial. From there, after a new neighbour
recognised him, he moved here, where, I gather, he's lived for two years. If
this missing cadaver does turn out to be Maurice Smith, I very much fear
someone's been acting as judge, jury and Albert Pierrepoint, the old hangman.'

Was there anything more worrying to a policeman than the public taking
the law into its own hands, Rafferty mused. Yet, at the same time, he was aware
of a degree of sympathy with such action. Particularly in cases like Smith's,
where justice was not only not done, but seen not to be done.

Becoming aware of Llewellyn's expectant gaze, he straightened his
shoulders, firmed up his spine, and said, 'First, we'd better check that he
is
missing. Send Smales round to his home, Dafyd. Here's the address. And for
God's sake, tell him to be discreet. Smith's living under the name of Martin
Smithson. Tell Smales to make sure he asks for him under that name. When you've
done that, I want you to contact Smith's family. Find out when they last saw
him or heard from him. I'm sure I don't need to tell you to be discreet. As for
me and Lilley, we're going to Dedman Wood to take a look at the scene.'

Llewellyn nodded and departed. Rafferty opened his door and shouted for
Lilley and when the young officer appeared, told him, 'We're going out to
Dedman Woods. I want to have a look for myself.'

It was now getting on for 11 o'clock and Rafferty, cheated of his early
night, was in just the right mood for issuing Mrs ffinch-Robinson's advised
rebuke. After he had shrugged into his coat, he said tersely, 'And next time an
obviously sober citizen like Mrs ffinch-Robinson reports finding a body, please
try not to get their back up. Apart from anything else, it offends against
Superintendent Bradley's favourite pet project: “
Politeness in Interaction
with Members of the Public
.”' Rafferty always made sure to mention it
whenever one of the younger officers offended against the programme. He felt he
had to do his bit to keep it alive, especially as the super had tried to smother
it after finally sussing the PIMP acronym that Rafferty had gladly suggested
for the programme. 'You know how fond of it he is. You wouldn't like him to get
to hear of your doings, I'm sure.'

Lilley's blond complexion went a little paler and he shook his head. It
was well known that Bradley threw himself into a towering rage whenever anyone
breached his
Politeness
Programme, though few realised the reason why.

 As, by now, Lilley was staring at his boots, he didn't notice Rafferty's
lips twitch. 'Sorry, sir. Won't happen again, sir.'

'See that it doesn't. Admittedly, you're not likely to have too many
truly disappearing cadavers in your career. But if you treat important
witnesses like Mrs ffinch-Robinson in such a cavalier fashion, your career's
likely to be short. Remember that.'

Rebuke over, Rafferty shut his door behind them, hiding the tiny smile as
he did so. Even at the end of a long day that promised to wipe the smile off
his face, the PIMP episode had the power to amuse. Several months ago, he had
got away with supplying the apt acronym for "Long-Pockets" Bradley's
latest attempt to enhance his status at Region with the immoral,
penny-pinching,
'Politeness costs nothing
' scam. When Bradley had
finally woken up to it, Rafferty had succeeded in convincing him that, not only
had his suggestion been made in all innocence, but that Region would be less
than impressed if he dropped his wool-over-the-public's-eyes wheeze when he had
spent so much time and money on its promotion. So Bradley had been stuck with
it.

Warmed by the memory, Rafferty’s step, as he followed Lilley out to the
car park, was more jaunty than it had any right to be.

'Maurice Smith's family say they haven't seen him since yesterday
evening,' Llewellyn reported, when Rafferty got back to the station after
examining the scene. It had been as Lilley had described, even down to the rope
tuft. Rafferty nodded glumly, doubts and amusement both, already fading.

'And, as far as they know, he had no travel plans. From what they say,
he's something of a loner, and rarely went out or socialised. He had no friends,
as far as they're aware. They said they don't see much of him themselves,
though I got the impression they don't exactly extend a hearty welcome when he
does visit.'

'Understandable,' Rafferty commented. 'He must have put them through
hell one way and another. Still,' he continued, uneasily, 'if Mrs
ffinch-Robinson is right, and it was Maurice Smith's body she saw, then this
case could have some very awkward connotations. If he's been killed by the
family of one of his victims, then public sympathy for them will make our job
extremely difficult. Nobody will co-operate. Nobody will answer our questions
and our chances of catching his killer could be zilch.'

Rafferty, his attitude towards the victim still ambivalent, wasn't sure
that wouldn't be the best result. From his understanding of the case, Smith had
ruined enough lives; dead, he wouldn't have the chance to ruin more. But, aware
that the high-moral ground Welshman would be unlikely to share his opinion, he
kept it to himself. Llewellyn believed that, whatever the provocation, no one
had the right to take the law into their own hands. Increasingly, these days,
Rafferty found his own beliefs wavering. The man, rather than the policeman,
thought that ultimately, every human being was responsible for their own survival
and that of their family. If parliament and the courts, who were supposed to
protect the honest citizen, failed in their responsibility, what was the
law-abiding citizen to do? Cower in a corner and let the barbarians do what
they liked?

Society had been overwhelmed by crime in recent years; like a flood
tide, it poured over their homes, their schools, their neighbourhoods, tainting
every aspect of life. The courts issued what he and many other people
considered to be futile punishments to the perpetrators, when they punished
them at all. Young criminals, in particular, laughed at the law. Without
majesty, dignity and a strong right arm, the law deserved to be laughed at for
the joke it had become. Lately, he had often thought that the Old Bailey, the
Central Criminal Court, and the prime upholder of the law, should be crowned
with "
Crime Rools OK
" graffiti, rather than the bronze Justice
statue.

With a tired sigh, he forced such thoughts to the back of his mind and
asked how Smales had got on.

'He was unable to get a reply from either Smith or his landlady,'
Llewellyn told him. 'And as he was anxious about your warning on discretion, he
thought better of asking amongst the neighbours. I told him to return to the
station. I hope that's all right?'

'Yes. It's getting late, too late for banging on doors and disturbing
people. We'll go ourselves in the morning. For the moment, I want to keep this
low-key. I know Mrs ffinch-Robinson was convinced the corpse was Smith's, but
it's possible she made a mistake. Time enough to turn up the volume if Smith
has
vanished.'

In spite of his forced optimism, Rafferty wished he could get out of his
mind the conviction that the Mrs ffinch-Robinsons of this world were pretty
well infallible. Such thoughts were, he felt sure, guaranteed to give him a
sleepless night.

On Friday morning Rafferty and Llewellyn drove to Maurice Smith's flat. He
lived in an Edwardian terraced house, a once-family home that had seen better
days and had long been converted to separate dwellings. Smith's home was on the
first floor, above the landlady, Mrs Penny's, flat. There was an unlocked
outside door, and, inside this, the two flats each had their own doors with letterboxes
and secondary bells. Rafferty noticed that Smith's door had a spyhole, an
amateur effort which he had probably made himself.

After getting no answer from Smith, Rafferty tried the landlady's bell. But
there was no answer there either and he suggested they have a look round the
back.

A six-foot double wooden gate concealed concrete hard-standing. Rafferty
frowned as he saw the lock on the gate had been forced. 'Looks very recent,' he
observed as he examined the bright wood around the lock. As well as the broken
gate lock, when they walked up the back path they found a few threads of navy
cotton clinging to the fire escape. According to Mrs ffinch-Robinson, the
corpse she had found had been wearing a navy and maroon tracksuit. After he
drew Llewellyn's attention to the threads Rafferty sealed them in a plastic bag
without further comment.

He was beginning to feel he should have posted an officer in Dedman Wood
last night to secure the scene. But it was too late for that now and he
consoled himself with the thought that there could be few enough people
choosing to walk in the woods after dark, particularly in the depths of winter.
Anyway, on the way out this morning, he had instructed Lilley to stand guard
duty at the scene and with such a belated effort he had to be content. After
all, with no corpse, they couldn't be sure they had a murder on their hands
and, until they were sure, he didn't want to alert the press by putting a
uniform at the scene.

They found nothing else and came back to the front of the property. Mrs
Penny had still not returned, but, determined to get some answers, Rafferty
decided they would wait. There was a baker's on the corner and he sent
Llewellyn over to get coffee, which they drank sitting in the car.

The baker's had a three-tiered wedding cake in the window. It turned
Rafferty's mind to other things than Smith. Llewellyn had been strongly
courting Rafferty's second cousin, Maureen, since the previous April, and, from
various remarks that Llewellyn had made, Rafferty had got the impression that
an announcement was imminent. But several months had gone by and no
announcement had been made. Now, glancing at Llewellyn he asked, 'So, how's the
love life? Popped the question yet?'

Beside him, Llewellyn stiffened. 'We have only known one another for a
little over six months, you know. Matrimony is too important a step to rush
into.'

'And faint hearts never won fair lady,' Rafferty reminded him. 'What's
the matter? Getting cold feet?'

 Llewellyn said nothing and Rafferty, who would himself like nothing more
than a spot of connubial bliss, commented tartly, 'If I know you, you'll be
saying the same in six years. You do love each other, I take it?' They'd
certainly looked moony-eyed enough to Rafferty on the occasions he'd seen them
together.

Llewellyn forced a 'yes' out.

'There you are, then.'

Of course, the Welshman couldn't help being the way he was, Rafferty
reminded himself. His background as a Welsh Methodist minister's only son was
hardly guaranteed to turn him into a young Lochinvar. What Llewellyn needed was
an agony uncle, he decided. Or a boot up the backside. Or both.

He plumped for the gentle approach. 'So, what seems to be the problem?'
he asked, in his best bedside manner. 'You've got heaps in common, you love
each other fit to bust. What else is holding you up?'

Llewellyn hesitated, then confided, 'I want her to go up to Wales with
me to meet my mother. Just a short visit, over a weekend.'

'And Maureen won't go, I take it?'

Llewellyn nodded glumly. 'She said she has no intention of being paraded
around my home village like a prize cow.'

Rafferty spluttered into his coffee and muttered to himself, 'That
sounds like Maureen.' He thought for a moment, then said brightly, 'So, if the
prize cow won't go to the cattle show, what you've got to do is hold the show
down here and let Daisy parade only for the prospective purchaser rather than
the non-spending gawpers.'

'I wish you wouldn't keep referring to her as—'

Rafferty held up his hand. 'All right. Sorry. It's a good idea, though,
isn't it? Isn't it?' he repeated, when Llewellyn failed to respond.

'It would be if it didn't have several drawbacks, which was the reason I
didn't suggest it. For one, my flat's too small. Of course my mother could stay
with Maureen's mother, but— '

'Exactly – but.'

Maureen's mother was a difficult woman. No, Rafferty thought, scrub
that. She was bloody impossible; all airs and graces and condescension;
starched tablecloths and starched pillows cases. Starched knickers, too,
probably. 'Your mother wouldn't stay in a hotel, I suppose?'

'I wouldn't ask it of her. Hotels can be lonely places. And she's lived
a very quiet life.' He glanced quickly at Rafferty. 'You'll probably find this
amusing, but she still hasn't got a television set.'

Rafferty didn't find it funny at all. In a sudden burst of generosity,
he found himself saying, 'She could stay with Ma. She's got plenty of room.'

Rafferty, always convinced his ideas were excellent until events proved
otherwise, pushed this one with his usual enthusiasm. Ignoring the doubtful
look in Llewellyn's eye, he said, 'It's the perfect solution, Daff. They're
both widows, both alone, it'd be welcome company for both of them. At least let
me put it to Ma.'

Llewellyn's old-fashioned look made Rafferty re-examine his initial
enthusiasm. Perhaps volunteering ma and her best spare room wasn't such an
inspired notion, after all? If Llewellyn's childhood had been even half as
dreary as Rafferty suspected, his mother must be a dour old biddy, as narrow in
outlook as his ma was broad.

But he realised he had talked Llewellyn into it when the Welshman
suddenly asked, 'You're sure Mrs Rafferty won't mind?'

'Sure I'm sure.' Rafferty swallowed hard and added, 'she'll love it.'

Rafferty's Ma had taken even more of a proprietary interest in the
romance than Rafferty and was well on the way to persuading Llewellyn to
convert to Catholicism. Rafferty consoled himself with the thought that it would
only be for a week or so. Just while Mrs Llewellyn looked 'Daisy' over. He'd
have to ensure he made that clear. 'I'll ask her tonight,' he told Llewellyn. 'And
then you can sort the details out between yourselves.'

It seemed Llewellyn, too, had a few reservations, for he said quickly,
'Perhaps it would be best to make the invitation for after Christmas? I'm sure
your mother will be far too busy to want to entertain strangers then.'

'Good idea.' Christmas at ma's house was normally riotous. Not suitable
for an old-fashioned Methodist matron, who was likely to be long on sin and
short on forgiveness. Not suitable at all.

Though, the more Rafferty thought about it, the more he realised there
were few periods in the year when the visit wouldn't turn out to be an
unmitigated disaster. Why don't I keep my big mouth shut? he asked morosely.
It'll all end in tears, I know it will. Probably mine.

He pushed his gloomy conclusions aside as he saw a comfortably built
woman in her seventies walking towards them, a well-filled shopping trolley
pushed before her. 'Want to bet that's Smith's landlady?'

Not being a betting man, Llewellyn didn't take him up on his offer. But
Rafferty's guess was borne out when she stopped at the front door and pulled
out a key.

They got out of the car. Rafferty, careful not to startle her, took his
warrant card from his pocket and softly called her name. As she turned, he held
the card up and slowly approached.

'We're police officers. You are Mrs Penny?' She nodded and Rafferty introduced
himself and Llewellyn. 'I wonder, could we have a word? It's about your
lodger.'

'About Ma-Martin?' She studied them anxiously before asking, 'Why? Whatever
has he done?'

'He hasn't done anything,' Rafferty hastened to reassure her. At least not
lately, he silently amended. 'We just need to speak to him, but as he isn't
home ..'

She hesitated, then said, 'You'd better come in.'

`Mrs Penny's living room was homely; comfortable, if over-furnished,
with masses of family photographs dotted about. Her face creased in anxiety as,
after she had sat them down, she said, 'You're sure he's not in any sort of
trouble.'

'No.' Rafferty paused and added, 'that is, not exactly. As I said, we
just wanted to speak to him. Actually, one of my officers called round yesterday
evening,' Rafferty told her. 'But he could get no reply at either Mr Smithson's
flat or yours. Of course, it was rather late.'

In spite of her obvious anxiety about her lodger, Mrs Penny managed a
tiny smile. 'Isn't that always the way? Last night was the first evening I've
been out in four months. Went to a WRAF's reunion at a local hotel. It was after
midnight before I got home. Haven't had such a good time since I don't know
when.'

The houses on either side were also multi-occupancy, she told them, but
their landlords, unlike her, didn't live on the premises and the tenants were
mostly young and tended to come and go. She had been widowed two years earlier,
and nowadays, she rarely saw anyone unless she went out and, apart from shopping,
that happened seldom. 'But here am I forgetting my manners. Let me make some
tea.'

She bustled into the kitchen and was soon plying them with such
quantities of tea, home-made sponge cake and biscuits that it wasn't hard to
guess the extent of her loneliness.

As she sat down, Rafferty explained that her lodger had been reported
missing. He judged that was the safest way to describe the peculiar events of
yesterday. 'There are certain – aspects that warrant further investigation.'

Her wide brow creased as she returned to his previous answer. 'But who
would report him missing? He has no friends, and although he saw his family on
Wednesday evening, that's the first time he's seen them in weeks.' Her warm
gaze was sad. 'His mother died some years ago and he doesn't really get on with
his step-father and half-brother. From odd things he's said, I gather they
don't encourage his visits. I don't know why he bothers. Still, I suppose they're
the only family he's got. But, in reality, I'm probably the nearest thing he's
got to true friend and family both, and I certainly haven't reported him
missing.' She eyed them shrewdly. 'So who has?'

'I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mrs Penny,' Rafferty replied. 'I can
only say again that the person who did so is very respectable, very
responsible, and wouldn't make such a report without being pretty sure of the
facts.'

Her expression anxious, she told them, 'You know, now you mention it, I
haven't heard him at all this morning and he's generally an early riser. Usually,
I hear him moving about. Wednesday evening he was pacing up and down as though
he had something on his mind; it went on till the early hours. Yesterday
evening was the same — at least until I went out. It worried me to leave him
all alone when he was so obviously troubled. I had half a mind to stay home after
all, but Martin wouldn't hear of it. He wouldn't tell me what was the matter
either and I couldn't force him.'

 She sighed heavily. 'And now you tell me he's missing. I do hope he
hasn't done anything silly.' Her warm brown gaze rested steadily on Rafferty's
face. 'You know his real identity, I take it?'

Rafferty nodded, surprised that she should be aware of it and still let
Smith remain in her home.

She explained, 'He told me his real identity a couple of months after he
moved in. He knew from the Social that I was on the list of those prepared to
offer a home to men like him. I suppose he felt he could confide in me.' She
sighed again. 'I do wish he'd told me what's been worrying him this last day or
two.'

'You weren't concerned when he told you of his background?' Rafferty
asked.

'I'm seventy-six, Inspector,' she told him calmly. 'An age I thought
unlikely to rouse Maurice's anti-social urges. I felt sorry for him. He was –
is,' determinedly she corrected herself, as though unwilling to accept the
possibility that her lodger might be dead, 'a pretty sad young man; plain,
awkward, lacking any social graces. He desperately needed someone to talk to,
someone to take an interest in him. I don't think anyone else ever did. Of
course, with most people, his appearance and diffident manner went against
him.'

She studied them for a moment, as though weighing them up, before
confiding, 'My son had a similar problem to Maurice. My Alan committed suicide
when he was twenty-eight because he hated himself so much. No-one seemed able
to help him. He served a prison sentence for assaulting one young girl. He had
an awful time there and was terrified he would weaken, attack another young
girl and get sent back. He was ashamed of what he'd done, but he told me when
he got these urges they seemed to take him over.' In her lap, her hands gripped
each other tightly. 'I think, in the end, he felt he could no longer cope with
all the emotions raging inside him, so — he destroyed himself. He felt it was
his only choice. I thought ..' She bit her lip 'I thought I might be able to
help Maurice, where I'd failed to help my son, prevent the same thing happening
to him as happened to my boy. They can control those sort of sexual compulsions
nowadays, can't they? Only – ' she faltered. 'Only nobody seems terribly
bothered to do so. I knew Maurice confessed to the police. He expected to be
put away, to get help. Only he wasn't and he didn't.' Abruptly, she got up. Rafferty
guessed the memories of her son were too painful, too full of self-blame and
thoughts of if only for her to wish to dwell on them. 'You'll want the key to
his room.'