The Hanging Tree (21 page)

It was much later when Rafferty sought Llewellyn out. By now, emboldened
by his success with Gemma and more than his share of Jameson's whiskey, he was
ready to put the rest of the world to rights. He followed the Welshman when he
went to the bathroom and demanded a few answers. After all he had been put
through, he felt he deserved them. He fixed Llewellyn with a bleary-eyed stare
and said, 'I don't get it. Your mum's come down, met Maureen, they get on like
a house on fire — so why have you been looking as miserable as a doctored
poodle all week?'

'Surely you can guess?'

'I wouldn't ask if I could. Come on, out with it, man.'

Llewellyn hesitated. Then he blurted out, 'It's Maureen. She's
your
cousin. So tell me, how would
you
go about asking 'Daisy' the cow if
she'll consent to your putting a ring through her nose?'

Rafferty gave a shout of laughter, but quickly sobered when he saw
Llewellyn was serious. 'You mean you haven't even
asked
her yet? What
the hell have you been doing all this time?'

 'Trying to pluck up the courage,' Llewellyn finally confessed. 'A task
not made any easier by the fact that both your mother and mine seem to assume
that asking her is a mere formality. I even tried seeking your advice several
times,' he admitted, 'but each time I tried you seemed to cut me off.' Rafferty
shuffled his feet guiltily. 'You know Maureen. She's a woman with very modern,
feminist ideas. She may not even want to get married.'

'You must at least have pinned her down to a general opinion on the
subject?'

Llewellyn shook his head. 'Not exactly.'

Exasperated, Rafferty exclaimed, 'For God's sake, man, why ever not? Perhaps
if you and Maureen had socked old Socrates and his mates into touch once in a
while and discussed the basics, you might know where you stood. Maureen's not
stupid. Do you think she doesn't know that both your mother and mine have got
you married off already? Especially when Ma hasn't stopped teasing the poor
girl about wedding bells all day. And then when
her
mother chimed in
about keeping the guest list small and select' – which he guessed meant as few
Raffertys as possible — 'I wouldn't have thought she could have much doubt of
the way the wind's blowing.'

'I realise that,' Llewellyn retorted. 'But even you must have noticed
she looked more embarrassed than pleased about it and immediately changed the
subject. What does that tell you?'

 'What does that tell me?' Rafferty repeated incredulously, as through
his mind, in swift succession, were paraded all the tortures he'd suffered
because of Llewellyn's wimpish wooing. That they'd stemmed almost entirely from
his own over-active imagination, he disregarded.

'I'll tell you what it tells me.' He realised he was shouting and
lowered his voice. 'Has it not occurred to that over-sized intellectual brain
of yours that the poor girl was embarrassed — not, as you seem to think —
because she doesn't want to marry you, but because you haven't bloody asked
her!'

He again dragged his voice down to a loud whisper and demanded, 'What
else do you expect her to be when she must think you don't want to marry her? I'd
be bloody mortified in her position.'

While Llewellyn absorbed this, Rafferty thrust his advice home with the
poke of an index finger in the chest. 'Do everyone a favour, find the courage
of your convictions and ask her.' Rafferty's eyes narrowed. 'Or do you expect
Maureen to do the asking? Let me tell you something, Mo might be a modern sort
of girl with plenty to say for herself on other matters, but on this subject
she's likely to be as traditional as my Ma. Besides, it's hardly good for a
girl's ego to have to confess to her friends, her workmates, her snotty-nosed
mother, for God's sake, that
she
had to do the asking.'

Rafferty paused for breath, then went on. 'Do you think that mother of
hers wouldn't rub her nose in it every time they had a falling out? And Maureen
would blame you.
Ask
her. That's my last word on the subject. Now.' Rafferty
removed his body from its doorframe prop, staggered a little and aimed himself
at the front door. 'I'm going home.'

As Rafferty
drifted off to sleep, Gemma's face kept passing in and out of his dreams. each
time, gazing pensively at him from the frame of a photograph. It was as if, in
his dream, she was trying to tell him something.

The dream moved on, became tangled up in the lives of the other young
girls involved in the case, their emotions, their vulnerabilities. Perhaps it
was the combination of those things which set his mind on the correct path at
last. But, all at once, in his sleeping state, anyway, he had the answer.

Of course, it had faded by morning, but certainly, when the phone woke
him at seven and groggily, he surfaced from an alcoholic sleep, stretched out a
hand and sent the bedside lamp clattering to the floor, he was aware of a vague
sense of having dredged up something vital. He shook his head to clear it,
winced, finally found the phone and said, 'Ugh?'

He sat up pretty quickly when he absorbed what the voice was saying in
his ear. When his head had stopped spinning, he said, 'They're sure it's
Massey?'

He listened for a while, asked a few more questions, then hung up. Rubbing
his hands over his face, he tried to think. Phone Llewellyn, his brain
instructed.

Llewellyn was already up, that much was obvious. He heard Maureen's
voice in the background and despite his throbbing head, he managed a grin. 'Been
keeping a welcome in that there hillside?' he asked Llewellyn. The Welshman
refused to dignify his question with a reply, so Rafferty shrugged and
continued. 'Guess what? The station's just been on.  Massey's turned up —  only
trouble is, he's dead. Hanged himself in some Dutch barn.'

'Hanged, you say?'

It was obvious that the method of suicide Massey had chosen had stirred
up Llewellyn's suspicions.

Rafferty paused to accommodate them, then continued. 'According to the
Dutch police, he's been living rough for the last few days. The farmer said he
saw this wild man in the woods near his place and reported it, but the police
took their own sweet time in looking into the matter. Unfortunately, in the
meantime, Massey must have made up his mind to end it all. The farmer found him
early this morning hanging from the beam in his barn.'

'So, apart from the usual mopping-up operations, the investigation's
over?'

'What?' Something went click in Rafferty's brain and the dream of the
night returned in its entirety. 'No,' he said. 'The poor bastard didn't do it. Massey
isn't the one who killed Smith.' That was another poor B entirely, he thought
and I'm the poor sap who has to make the arrest.

Already depressed in body by alcohol, the thought depressed his spirit
and he wondered again if he was really cut out for police work. 'I think the
poor sod was just terrified of being on the receiving end of another piece of
injustice. After all, he had no reason to think the law would get it right this
time any more than they did last time.

'No,' he repeated, 'Massey didn't do it. I've finally figured out who did.'
He paused and crossed his fingers. 'At least I think I have. I've got a few
things to check out first. I'll see you at the station in forty minutes and
I'll explain then.'

Rafferty replaced the receiver before Llewellyn could ask any more
questions and slumped on the bed. Was it his fault that Massey had killed
himself? Had he driven an innocent man to suicide? Maybe if he'd been smarter,
quicker to work out the clues that had been there all the time, the poor
bastard might still be alive.

Slowly, his hand reached out again for the phone.

The Elmhurst Private Sanatorium might now be called "Green
Lawns" and be under different ownership, but as Llewellyn drove through
the gates, Rafferty saw that the place looked much the same as he remembered
from when it had been the scene of an earlier murder.

The hushed air that, in a noisy modern world, only the wealthy could
afford, still hovered over the manicured lawns, their well-nourished lushness
emphasised by the light dressing of December snow.

Even the gate-porter to whom they had shown their identification was the
same. Rafferty searched his memory for his name. Then it came to him. Gilbert —
that was it. From what he knew of the man, he was surprised he still had his
job.

After enquiring at the reception desk they were directed down a thickly
carpeted corridor to the rear of the Georgian house which accommodated the
administrative offices and into the much more recently added wings which
contained the private rooms.

Elizabeth Probyn didn't look up when the door opened, but simply went on
spooning the breakfast cereal into the girl's mouth, tenderly, carefully,
making sure none was spilt. She didn't turn her head when he called her name,
but continued to deliver spoon from bowl to mouth as though it were the most
important thing in the world to her. It probably was, Rafferty reflected.

 A silence took hold, which Rafferty forced himself to break with a
careful warning. 'I feel I ought to tell you, Ms Probyn, that we know pretty
well everything now.'

Still, she said nothing.

Rafferty had never had occasion to caution a Chief Crown Prosecutor
before, though there had been many a time when he'd wanted to, particularly
this one. That desire had faded. He'd disliked, resented her, for so long, that
the feeling of pity that had replaced such emotions didn't sit comfortably. Still,
it was strong and threatened to unman him. He wished he could forget what he
knew, what his phone calls had confirmed, sweep it under some wide, grey carpet
out of sight of man's justice. But he couldn't. He reminded himself that he had
fantasised about arresting this woman. And now — now it was the hardest, most
gut-wrenching thing he had ever had to do.

He found his voice again. 'This is your daughter?'

She nodded. 'How did you find out?'

'It was the pictures that led me to the rest.'

'Pictures?'

'The photographs of your daughter in your home. It suddenly struck me
you only had pictures of her as a new-born baby and as a young woman, with
nothing in between, no photographic tracing of all the stages from toddler to
school photographs in her uniform. I wondered why. Then it came to me. You only
had early pictures and more recent ones because you hadn't
seen
her in
between. Had no idea what had happened to her in between because she'd been
adopted. Only then, when she reached eighteen, she traced you. And you found
out what had happened to her: that she'd been Maurice Smith's fifth victim.

'Suddenly, it all made sense; most of it, anyway – the security you had
installed and why, your daughter's woman's trouble, emotional and mental rather
than physical, the fact that Smith had no qualms about letting his killer into
his flat, and the ritual stringing up of his body.'

Her head swivelled and she glanced briefly at him, before turning back
to the girl. 'I underestimated you, Inspector. You seem to have worked it out
very well.'

'Frank Massey was the father?'

Her bowed head acknowledged it. 'He wanted me to have an abortion. We
rowed about it and I didn't see him again till my delayed return to college
after the long summer holidays, after the birth, after the adoption. I told him
I'd had the abortion he'd been pressing for.' She faltered, went on. 'He still
doesn't know he had another daughter.'

Rafferty's breath suddenly quickened as he remembered she didn't know Massey
was dead, that now he'd never know about his other daughter.

'I doubt I would ever have told him about her, but then Sheena — my
daughter — traced me, wanted to know who her father was, to meet him. Only
before I could bring myself to confess the truth to Frank, Sheena met Maurice
Smith again. God knows she was a nervy enough girl before that, distraught
whenever I had to leave her alone in the house. I hadn't known he had moved to
Elmhurst. There was no reason I should, of course, but if I had known, I could
have saved her from the trauma of meeting him again. I'd persuaded her to go
shopping with the daughter of a friend of mine.'

She took a shaky breath and continued. 'She bumped into Maurice Smith in
the town centre. Smith, the beast who raped her when she was a little girl. Sheena
had little trouble recognising him: His is the face in her nightmares, after
all. She became hysterical and ran home. I was at work, of course. She was
alone for hours; refused to answer my friend's pleas that she open the front
door. So my friend rang me and I came home. She'd locked herself in the
bathroom and we had to break the door down.'

Gently, she pushed the dark hair off her daughter's forehead. 'We found
her much as she is now. It was only later, after the doctor had been and
sedated her, that I got the full story of what had happened from my friend's
daughter.'

She clutched the now empty cereal bowl and gazed at Sheena, who sat
cradling a Raggedy-Ann doll in her lap, whispering to it in a lisping childlike
voice.

'The doctors say she relapsed into childhood. She seems ... happier
there.'

Rafferty cautioned her again before she said any more. But she ignored
the caution. She seemed to have a need to talk, to make them understand.

'She's my only child. I'd been told after her birth that it was unlikely
I could have another baby, so you can imagine my joy when she traced me. Imagine,
too, my horror when, shortly after our reunion, she broke down and told me she
had been another of Smith's victims. I'd had no idea till then that he'd
attacked a fifth young girl.' She raised her eyes to Rafferty's. 'How did you
know there had been a fifth victim? I thought no one knew.'

'Stubbs mentioned it. He and Thompson went to see Smith after the trial.
He told them then. Of course, even Smith had no idea who the girl was  — she
was just some little girl with a fiddle. Neither she nor her parents had come
forward, there was nothing Stubbs could do. There was no point in mentioning it
to anyone, including you. He confirmed when I rang him this morning that you
hadn't been told.'

She nodded. 'And you found yourself wondering how I knew there had been
a fifth victim.' Suddenly she smiled. 'She's inherited my love of music. Piano's
her thing now, rather than the violin, so I bought her the best instrument I
could find. I-I hoped we could practise together.' Her voice faltered and the
smile faded. 'I doubt we'll ever do that now.'

Tenderly, she again smoothed her daughter's dark hair from her forehead.
'She told me she was coming out of her music lesson when Smith accosted her.'

Again, she faltered for a moment and as she went on, her voice hardened 'Her
adoptive parents reacted in the worst possible way when she told them what had
happened to her. At first they refused to believe her, told her she was wicked
to tell such lies. Even when she recognised his face in the newspapers when he
was charged with the rape of the other little girls and finally accepted she
hadn't been lying, they refused to come forward, refused to let her speak of
it, even. She was made to feel it had been her fault. She said they had told
her she was never to tell anyone about it because it was so shameful. Hardly
surprising she never got over it.'

Silence descended again. The only sound was Sheena's voice chattering to
her doll. Now, in the silence, Rafferty could make out what she was saying and
he wondered how Elizabeth Probyn could bear it as Sheena whispered the same
words over and over again, 'Naughty girl to tell such lies. You must be
punished. Naughty girl to tell such lies. You must be punished. Naughty girl—'

'Frank Massey went missing,' he burst out, unable to stand the dreadful
repetition. He wanted to get it over with, all of it and get out of this room
with its claustrophobia, its misery. 'You remember I told you?'

'Yes.'

He hesitated, then it came out in a rush. 'I'm afraid I've bad news. We
found him — or rather, a Dutch farmer found him. In his barn.' Again, he
hesitated, but then forced himself to go on. 'He'd hanged himself.'

She didn't seem surprised. 'Poor Frank. Ironic when you think about it. He
wanted me to kill our baby, instead my actions have resulted in his death.' Sighing,
she added, 'He wasn't strong either mentally or emotionally.' Her gaze rested
sadly on the girl. 'I'm afraid Sheena takes after him. He couldn't take prison.
I know he had some kind of breakdown. Archie Stubbs made sure I knew that; I
suppose he still wanted to punish me.

'Thankfully, he was unaware of our earlier affair. After he learned that
Smith had been murdered Frank was terrified that he might be charged with his
killing, might end up in prison again, especially as he had no alibi. He rang
me, wanted my reassurance. I did my best to convince him he was safe, that the
police would believe him, that no one would think he had anything to do with
it. Obviously, he didn't believe me. Perhaps I didn't try hard enough.' Her
eyes shadowed. 'Maybe Archie Stubbs wasn’t the only one keen to punish the
guilty and I still wanted to hurt him, to punish him for his weakness when I
was young, pregnant and frightened.'

Quickly now, as though she wanted to get it over, she told them the
rest. Ellen Kemp, the eldest of the three breakaway RSG women had given birth
to her daughter, Jenny, at the same time as the young Elizabeth Osborne had had
Sheena. They'd been in adjoining beds and had kept in touch ever since. She
told them that, by following Ellen Kemp's daughter's progress, she felt she was
following that of her own daughter; the first words, the first steps, the first
venture into the wider world.

‘When my daughter traced me and told me what had happened to her, I
contacted Ellen Kemp for advice, in the hope that her expert counselling might
help my daughter. But, after Sheena had encountered Smith for the second time
in her life, it was too late, the damage had gone too deep.’

'It was then that Ms Kemp and her friends sent Smith the “outing”
letter?' Rafferty questioned.

 She nodded. 'Though I only learned about that later. I didn't realise
they were watching his flat to make sure he didn't escape the punishment Ellen
and her friends had decided upon. Ellen was the one watching the flat when I
went there that night. She saw Smith open the front door and let me in. Saw me
come out again, down the fire escape this time, and guessed, from what I’d told
her previously, that it was Smith's body I was struggling to get down the
stairs. I'd bought rubbish sacks to cover him; fitting, I thought.

'Anyway, Ellen told me afterwards that she had assumed I had simply
stunned Smith. She followed me, hoping to prevent me doing anything worse. She
was too late, of course. I'd already killed him at the flat. The stringing up
afterwards was something, like the rubbish sacks, I just felt fitting. Symbolic.
By the time she reached Dedman Wood, I had already driven off.

'Ellen took Smith’s body down and put it in the boot of her car;
instinctively she felt she had to hide it. Only, of course, it wasn't her car. It
belonged to one of the other women. And when she told them what she had done,
they persuaded her to put the body back, without the hood or wrist binding. They
panicked, hoped it would be thought Smith had killed himself. Of course, they
didn't realise I had stabbed him. I can't imagine they examined him too closely
and his dark clothes would have hidden any bloodstains.'

Rafferty nodded. He had been right. The RSG women had acted exactly as
he had outlined to Mary Carmody. The realisation brought little satisfaction. He
had been right, too, in the supposition that it had been one of Smith's victims
they had helped. Elizabeth Probyn, Ellen Kemp's friend for eighteen years and
her daughter's "Aunt Beth", had been as much Smith's victim as any of
the raped girls.

Llewellyn's throat-clearing broke the silence. 'There is one thing  —  no
— two, I don't understand.' She waited expectantly. 'Why he opened the door to
you and how you knew his landlady would be out that night.'

'As for the latter, surely you haven't forgotten my "treasure",
my cleaning lady? I learned of the reunion from her. Her mother was going, she
told me. She also told me, not once, but a dozen times, the names of her
acquaintances who were also to attend the reunion. Mrs Chadden likes to talk. It
gives her a perfect excuse to avoid doing any work. And, of course, by then,
I'd found out where Smith lived, the name of his landlady and as much about him
and his habits as possible. I knew that Thursday would be perfect.'

'It was you who rang the Social and got his address?' Llewellyn asked
and when she nodded, he reminded her of his other query.

'As far as Smith knew, Sergeant, I was a representative of the law, not
a vengeful parent. When he saw me through the spy hole in his front door he
didn't see me as a threat. He remembered me from the trial: I still had my old
security pass in my maiden name. I showed him that, told him I was researching
for a book about men like himself and the raw deal he and other victims of
justice had.

'He swallowed it whole, was pathetically eager to talk. He told me that
his stepfather had beaten him up that very evening when he'd gone over there to
see him. He was feeling sorry for himself and wanted a sympathetic ear. I did
my best to oblige.'

Rafferty, glad to learn that he had been right, too, about the beating
Smith’s stepfather had administered, was only sorry that it was hearsay
evidence and inadmissible.