The Hanging Tree (7 page)

'Old Stimpson? Don't make me laugh. He was near retirement himself. He
only took the job as a favour to the new Regional Director, he didn't intend to
work too hard, I can tell you and he gave a pretty free rein to the young
bloods in his traces. Spent as much time on the golf course as he did in his
office. Besides, although it was never admitted officially, it was accepted
that there would be a fair few balls-ups during the changeover period. And
there were.'

Rafferty nodded again. He remembered some of them.

'Not, from my understanding that things are any better today; the CPS is
still largely staffed by inexperienced, not so bright graduates. The clever
ones mostly go into private Chambers. Can't blame them, I suppose, it's much
better paid.

'The CPS still tends to get either the idealistic ones like Ms Osbourne,
or the ones who couldn't get accepted in Chambers. Admittedly, this was a
completely new service with many jobs to fill, and they perhaps couldn't afford
to be too particular if they wanted to get the show on the road.' He directed a
sour grin at Rafferty. 'Much like the police force in the seventies, when they
accepted anyone who could walk and talk.'

Rafferty flushed. He had joined in the seventies and he wondered whether
Stubbs was having a dig at him. However, as Stubbs showed no inclination to
dwell on the subject, he decided he wasn't.

'Anyway, they managed to make me the fall guy. I'd made too many waves
over too many years, made it obvious too often how I felt about my superiors. I
was five years off retirement, I was expendable. Not Ms Osbourne, though. She's
gone from strength to strength. I often wondered if she'd been warming old
Stimpson's arthritic bones. She's Chief Crown Prosecutor on your manor, now,'
he told Rafferty. 'Who'd have thought she'd rise so high from such beginnings?'

Rafferty stared. 'You mean your Ms Osbourne and Elizabeth Probyn are one
and the same?' My God, he thought, just managing to bite back the sardonic
grin, she must have put her back into the job of keeping that quiet.

Stubbs nodded. 'I've kept tabs on her. Masochistic, I know, but..'

Rafferty said nothing, but he found himself wondering again who else
Stubbs had kept tabs on from that time? The name of Maurice Smith came to mind.

'Changed her name when she got married, though she stuck to the Ms bit.'
Stubbs gave them another sour grin. 'You ask her about the Smith case and watch
her squirm.'

Stubbs stood at
his doorway and watched them walk away as though he wanted to be sure they
left. Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn as they turned the corner to where they had
parked the car. 'You realise we'll have to check his movements, ex-copper or no
ex-copper?'

Llewellyn nodded.

'God knows he had motive enough. He had the means to find out Smith's
address. If we discover he also had the opportunity...' Rafferty didn't
finished the sentence. Llewellyn knew as well as he how difficult it would be
to get evidence against an experienced ex-copper. If Stubbs had killed Smith
he'd have been well able to cover his tracks. He'd made no attempt to hide his
bitterness. He'd seemed almost to flaunt it, challenging them to make a case
against him.

'What about the other officers on the case? Thompson, for instance?'

'They'll have to be checked out, too.'

The prospect of investigating fellow officers was a depressing one for
both of them and silence fell until they had reached the Elmhurst road and
Rafferty stopped at a red light.

'Let's disregard the police suspects for the moment,' he said. 'What if
Smith was killed by one of the victims or their parents? It might have taken
them this long to track him down, especially as he not only changed his name
but also moved twice since he left Burleigh. Hiring an investigator costs
money, and, for an ordinary person finding Smith would be like looking for a
needle in a haystack.' But not for a policeman, he thought again.

'True,' said Llewellyn. 'But I feel even his victims and their families
would surely need some other spur to act after all this time. Heightened
emotions don't stay heightened indefinitely; like the passions of love, the
passions of hate have a course to run. The first flickers, the growing heat,
the all-engulfing flames, the dying embers, and finally cold ashes.'

Astonished by his sergeant's sudden and poetical verbosity, Rafferty
felt compelled to remark, 'I'm not sure Stubbs, for one, would agree with you. And
even if his emotions had reached the cold ashes stage, he's got all the time in
the world to rake them over. And as for the victims and their families, who
knows if some new tragedy affected one of them? Something related to the
original crime, something they might consider directly attributable to Smith;
then the flames of passion might rise from the ashes. Events like rape do tend
to bring on other tragedies in a family - sometimes years after the event -
look at Frank Massey, for one.'

Tragedies like nervous collapse, and divorce - broken families and
broken lives. Rape often cast a long, lingering painful shadow among the
victims and their families, as Rafferty knew. Particularly when the victim was
a child. Particularly when, as in the Smith case, the physical rape had been
followed by judicial rape.

Rafferty squinted at his watch as the car passed under a street lamp. It
was after six. No wonder he was hungry; he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

'Get onto the station, will you, Dafyd? Get Beard to make an appointment
for tomorrow for us to see Mrs Nye of the Rape Support Group. He's likely to
find her at that refuge she founded in St Boniface Road. If any of her group
sent that 'outing' letter, she might be willing to drop a hint as to which of
her group could be responsible.'

Although the names of the more militant feminists in the Rape Support
Group and similar organisations were well known to the police, Rafferty felt he
had to tread cautiously, wary of accusations of police harassment. He had no
proof that any members of the local RSP were responsible for the 'outing'
threats that had occurred recently in the town. But he'd always found Mrs Nye a
reasonable woman. He didn't believe she would condone 'outing'. If she harboured
any suspicions against her more hot-headed colleagues, he felt he would be able
to persuade her to reveal them.

He broke into Llewellyn's transmission. 'Get Beard to make an
appointment with Elizabeth Probyn while he's at it. I'd be interested to see
what she remembers of the case. Tomorrow's Saturday, so she won't be able to
fob us off with excuses about being in court. Oh, and ask him to get me a
couple of rolls from the canteen before the lovely Opal goes home.' Llewellyn
gave the message and replaced the microphone.

Rafferty had no doubt that fobbing them off would be Elizabeth Probyn's
first instinct. She wouldn't enjoy discussing her early, spectacular failure;
particularly with him. She was one of those coolly distant prosecutors with
whom he could find no common ground. He had little doubt she would find the
interview humiliating.

And you, Rafferty? his conscience prodded. What will you find it? Enjoyable?
Maybe you'll crow a little? Rub her nose in it, will you?

Rafferty denied it. Unfortunately, his lapsed Catholic conscience, privy
to his every thought, word and deed, was well aware that Elizabeth Probyn was
not his favourite person. She had subjected him to several humiliations over
the years. She must have learned quickly from that early failure, he now
surmised, because he'd never had cause to reign her back in a case. On the
contrary, unlike Stubbs's experience of her, with him, she seemed to delight in
refusing to take on the prosecution of cases for which she felt the police had
provided insufficient evidence. Going to take the opportunity to get your own
back? his conscience probed again.

'Oh, shut up!' Rafferty growled.

'Sir?' Llewellyn's head jerked towards him, bewilderment evident. Hardly
surprising, of course, as the Welshman had been innocently gazing out the
window when Rafferty made his outburst.

'Nothing,' Rafferty mumbled. 'I'm just having an internal argument. Take
no notice.'

Rafferty found Mrs ffinch-Robinson waiting for him when he got back to
the station. She wore an air of vindicated self-righteousness — everything she
had said having proved true — and seemed to have taken up occupation of his
visitor's chair as though she intended a lengthy stay.

Rafferty, hungry and looking forward to breaking his post mortem fast,
gave a long-suffering sigh. Unfortunately, she was just the sort of person he
found it most difficult to deal with; not only serious-minded and unlikely to
appreciate his jokes, but also self-assured, strong-willed and convinced she
knew best. But as his conscience didn't fail to remind him that he had a lot to
thank her for, he did his best to look pleased to see her.

As soon as he sat down, she began to criticize, the cut-glass tones and
authoritative magistrate's manner combining to make him feel as though he was
some ne'er-do-well she was lecturing from the Bench. As, in his youth, he
hadn't exactly been the best-behaved boy on the block, the analogy didn't make
him feel any easier.

'I hope, Inspector, that you've reprimanded that young officer as I
suggested.'

To Rafferty, her suggestion had sounded more like a command, but, as she
didn't pause long enough to give him a chance to confirm he'd obeyed her, he
was saved the indignity of a reply.

'It's officers of his type who create a barrier between police and
public. I've often said that. I well recall another occasion when—'

With difficulty, Rafferty tuned her out. He remembered how her lips had
thinned when she had entered his office the previous evening and taken in his
unruly auburn hair, his limp brown suit and his inadequately cleaned black
shoes and knew that any attempt to defend Lilley would be a waste of breath. He
doubted she had any interest in excuses, be they his own or anyone else's.

Vowing to make sure to tell the desk staff that he was out —
permanently, should she decide to make visits to the police station a regular
event, he sat back and, as far as he was able, let her crisp tones float over
his head. He was becoming convinced she intended to haunt him.

Her voice rose, as if she suspected he had stopped listening, and he
breathed a sigh of relief as he tuned in again and learned she would be
returning to Burleigh the next day.

'That's why I felt I had to come in,' she explained. 'I imagine, now
that you have found the body, you'll want to go through my statement again.' Mrs
ffinch-Robinson didn't wait for his agreement to this any more than she had for
his confirmation that he had chastised Lilley and just proceeded to go over,
not only her statement, but her view of the murder, what she had deduced, and
her recommendations as to how he should proceed, apparently of the opinion he'd
need all the help he could get.

Maybe she's right at that, Rafferty thought grimly and he attempted to
butt in, but she obviously had huge experience at quelling mutinous males be
they felons or middle-ranking police officers and his attempt to board the
debate dinghy was ruthlessly crushed.

'Obviously, Smith's body must have been left in the woods during
darkness on both occasions,' she told him. 'Even in winter there are too many
people about during daylight hours. That being the case, you'll certainly want
to have a word with the local poachers. I've spoken to my opposite numbers on
the Bench in Elmhurst and they've supplied me with the details of those who
come up before them most often.' She rustled in a large, business-like leather
handbag and produced her list, which she placed under his nose.

'If one or two of them were about their usual nocturnal activities they
may have seen something of that car I heard in the lane before I found the
body. If you remember, I told you it never passed me and next I heard an engine
revving and a car drove off and a few moments later I found the body. The two
things must be connected. And another thing...'

Worn down by her determined vigour, Rafferty reflected weakly that the
Age of Empire might have died, but its natural inheritors were still alive and
kicking. No longer, like their forbears, in a position to boss half the world,
latter-day memsahibs had simply lowered their sights to Mother England's more
limited shores. Magistrate's Benches, Council Committees, and Police
Authorities up and down the country were littered with clones of Mrs
ffinch-Robinson, dispensing justice, Council Tax spending allocations and
strongly-worded directives about where the police force was going wrong.

In many ways he admired such women. If only they weren't so exhausting
to the rest of us, he wryly mused. Still, he shouldn't complain, he reminded
himself again. Her information at least helped them to pinpoint the time of
death more accurately, and if, as seemed likely, a ten-year-old vengeance had
finally caught up with Maurice Smith, this information could be vital.

When he'd finally convinced Mrs ffinch-Robinson that he had taken her
advice to heart and that she could go home with a clear conscious, he walked
along to the canteen. After collecting tea and the spicy and delicious, if now,
cold, sausage rolls, that Opal, the cook, made to her own recipe, he rounded up
the officers he had earlier despatched on special duties and brought the lot
back to this office.

'Right,' he said. 'You first, Andrews. 'What did you find out about the
Bullocks' and Smith's visit to them?'

Andrews pulled a face. 'Not a lot. Couldn't get anybody to confirm or
deny what time Smith arrived and left the Bullocks' place on Wednesday. And if
he was at the flats at all on Thursday evening I couldn't find anyone who'd
seen him. Course it was bitter weather both nights, so everyone would have been
indoors. I checked in the pub on the corner and both the Bullocks were in there
on the Thursday night. The son, Kevin, from about seven and Bullock himself
from about nine-thirty, though, according to the landlord, it was unusual for
Bullock senior to arrive so late.'

 'Mm. Interesting — especially when you consider I was given the
impression that they went to the pub together.

'Do you want me to go back and question them further?'

'No. I'll do that. I'd like to hear what Jes Bullock has to say for
himself. He's not the sort to be late for his pint, not unless he has something
important on. I'll give him a day or so to stew, first, though. Let him get
nicely softened up.' Rafferty paused and, turning to Llewellyn, he changed the
subject. 'Has the rest of the paperwork arrived from Burleigh yet?'

Llewellyn picked up the phone. 'I'll check.'

'What about you and Liz?' Rafferty asked Lilley, as Llewellyn spoke
quietly into the phone. 'Manage to find out anything new?'

Lilley nodded. 'We spoke with Smith's neighbours as you told us, guv,'
Lilley reported. 'You wanted to know if anyone had been hanging around
recently. Well, someone had. Several someone’s, in fact. This little old lady,
by the name of Miss Primrose Partington, who lives on the corner of the next
street, to Smith's, says that a stranger's car was parked outside her house
from Wednesday morning to Thursday evening, when it left suddenly. She's not
seen it since. Said she doubted she could recognise them again, but she did say
they were females, three of them, and that they seemed to be taking turns at
some sort of guard duty. All they did was sit there, though, at least that was
all they were doing each time she looked. I checked, and from where they were
parked they'd have had a good view of both the front and back of Smith's home. They
could have seen anyone entering or leaving from either the front door or the
fire escape.'

'Does she know the exact time this car left?'

'Afraid not. But it was gone when she looked out at ten o'clock before
going to bed.'

'I suppose it's too much to hope that she took the registration number?'

Lizzie Green answered. 'Wrong angle. But she recognised the make —-an
old Zephyr. Said her uncle used to have the same car.'

'You've checked they're not our own officers on surveillance for some
drugs bust?'

Lilley nodded. 'The station knows nothing about them. It's odd though,
don't you think, guv, that the car should have left the spot on the Thursday
evening; the night Smith died, yet before his identity was disclosed. They've
not been back since, though they'd not moved before that. It's almost as if
they'd been watching him for some reason and, knowing he was dead, called a
halt.'

Knowing he was dead – Rafferty repeated Lilley's words silently to himself
as he recalled the threat contained in the 'outing' letter. Who would have
known he was dead but his killer or killers, or the person or persons who were
responsible for moving his body?

 Llewellyn interrupted his train of thought to advise that the Burleigh
papers had arrived. Constable Beard was bringing them up.

Rafferty nodded and turned back to Lilley. 'You said Miss Partington
wasn't able to give you a description of these women, but, surely, she must
have noted something to know there were three of them.

Lilley pulled a face. 'Afraid not, guv. She said it was more impressions
— of hairstyles and so on rather than individual features that made her believe
there were three of them'

'So, it could just as easily have been one woman with three different
hairstyles,' Rafferty muttered.

Liz Green seemed to find it necessary to make excuses for the old lady. 'She
has got a long front garden, sir. It's got a lot of bushes in it, so it would
have been difficult for her to see plainly. And she doesn't go out as she can't
walk far.' With a toss of her dark curls, she added provocatively, 'She did say
that if it had been men rather than women parked there she would have phoned us
without question.'

Rafferty snorted. 'Sure to be up to no good, men. Not like the girls —
they're made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Everyone knows that.' He
took a huge bite of his sausage roll before continuing. 'What about the gate? Manage
to find out when it was damaged?'

Liz Green told him, 'Several of Mrs Penny's neighbours seem to think it
can't have happened before Thursday. A wind got up on both that night and the
Wednesday night but they only heard the gate banging on the Thursday night. Complained
it kept them awake. If it had done the same the previous night they'd have
remembered.'

Rafferty nodded. 'Well done. Right. I want you two to go back to that
street and keep knocking on doors till you get some more answers. The old lady
can't be the only one to remember the car, seeing as it was parked there for
the best part of two days. It's the sort of thing people notice; very
territorial the human animal. Don't like strangers parking on their street. Seem
to think they own it.'

He knew the station received plenty of complaints from irate
householders on the subject. Many times, when he'd been in uniform and on desk
duty, he'd had to bite his tongue to stop some sharp retort and explain
politely that the driver had a perfect right to park his car where he liked as
long as he wasn't on a yellow line or in some other restricted area. It was
possible another of Smith's neighbours had been annoyed enough about the
interloper to note down the number and to ask the police to tell the occupants
to shift it. It was something of a long-shot, but worth checking.

Rafferty turned to Hanks. 'How did you get on? Did you manage to track
down the current addresses of Smith's victims and their families?'

Hanks nodded. 'Of the four families, two have moved from Burleigh — the
Walkers and the Masseys. The Walkers, the family of the young girl who killed
herself, emigrated to Australia six years ago.'

'What? The whole family?' Hanks nodded again. 'Get onto our Aussie
opposite numbers, will you? Ask them to check that none of the family was
missing from home during the relevant period, though it seems unlikely. If
you're intent on revenge you don't move to the other side of the world. What
about the other families?'

'The Dennington father's dead; died of a heart attack shortly after
Smith was released. The girl's two brothers are in the army in Cyprus.'

'Should be easy enough to check they were with their units. You can do
that when you're finished here. What about the daughter?'

'The girl – Sally – is now twenty. She still lives with her mother in
their old home in Burleigh.' Hanks consulted his notes. 'The Masseys moved to
London eight years ago when Frank, the father, was released from prison after
his attack on Smith. The daughter, Alice, is now eighteen. She was — is, an
only child.'

Hanks cast a speculative glance at Rafferty as he laid his papers on the
desk. 'I know you told me to be discreet, but it seemed a waste of time not to
dig a little when their old neighbours were so chatty, so I thought—'

Rafferty nodded and gestured him to go on.

'I gather from their old neighbours that Massey had a breakdown and was
still a mass of neuroses when they moved. One particular set of neighbours
still keep in touch with Christmas cards and the like and told me the parents
have since split up.

'As for the Figg family, they stayed in their old home — it's their
business as well. They're scrap metal dealers, bit of a rough and ready crowd,
well known at Burleigh nick, apparently. If anyone was going to kill Smith,
they'd be the most likely ones to try it. From what I heard, you don't cross
the Figg family; not if you've got any sense. The two eldest boys have put
several people in hospital. And they don't just use their fists, a knife's
their favourite weapon.'

Rafferty congratulated them all. 'You've done well. Keep it up and we
might have this case over before Christmas. Is that your report, Hanks?'

Hanks nodded and picked up the sheaf of typed papers from the desk
beside him and handed them over.

'What about the rest of you?' Rafferty asked. 'Where are your reports?'