Somehow,
Rafferty got through the rest of the hospital visit without further upsets. But Abra, when he brought the subject up again as they drove home, still refused to take a pregnancy test.
‘But why won't you?’ Rafferty asked again. ‘I know you said–’
‘I know what I said. I also know what you said. I've thought of little else. Your rejection of our baby went round and round in my head all last night.’
‘I haven't rejected it,’ Rafferty insisted. ‘But,’ yet again he pointed out, not unreasonably he thought, ‘we still don't even know for certain if we are having a baby.’
‘No. And as I said, I think it's best if it stays that way. At least till I'm past the period for the legal termination I suspect you'll be angling for.’
‘That's unfair, Abra. I haven't even mentioned the possibility of you having a termination.’
‘No. But I bet you've thought it though, haven't you?’
Even though he hadn't given a thought to abortion, in all honesty he had to admit to himself that this might be because he hadn't had time for such thoughts. Given time, such a possibility might well have crossed his mind.
It was unfortunate that, by this time, they had reached Rafferty's flat and turned all the lights on. Because after taking one look at his face – which had never guarded his real feelings too well – Abra shrieked, 'You, you pig' at him, turned on her heel, her long, lustrous plait of hair swinging behind her and stormed out, back to her own flat, without another word.
It was yet another first. Abra had moved into his flat three weeks after they had met and – apart from the demands of work – they hadn't spent a night apart since
Their little difference was beginning to set records at an alarming rate. The previous night spent at opposite sides of the bed had been bad enough, but this was ten times worse. The situation was beginning to accelerate away from him, Rafferty realised; soon they could be past the point of no return. The ridiculous part was that he wasn't even sure he was that set against becoming a father.
Grimly, Rafferty faced the possibility that he might be about to lose Abra. This was sobering. Because he'd only just found her…
It was certainly too sobering a thought to face without alcohol, he thought, as he reached for the bottle of Jameson's and poured himself a generous measure.
Chapter Five
After a night
spent brooding, wondering what to do for the best, bleary-eyed, Rafferty left for the station. He had tried to contact Abra several times the previous evening, but she had left her ansafone switched on and in spite of his desperate pleading, she had chosen to take none of his calls.
Somehow, he knew he would have to find time during a busy day of interviews to go round to her flat. At least she should be there, as he knew she'd taken this week as a holiday from her job in order to do some long overdue spring cleaning.
Rafferty, beginning to worry that he'd be spring-cleaned out of Abra's life along with the dust and cobwebs, had reason to regret his shocked response to her news. But how had she expected him to react? He wasn't far off forty, already more than halfway through the biblical three score years and ten. At his age he should be thinking of putting more money in to his savings, not taking on – if the newspapers were to be believed about the costs of modern child-rearing – what sounded like a chunk of the National Debt.
His appalled reaction had been exacerbated by memories of another pregnancy – that of his late wife, Angie. Then too, failed contraception had brought about an unplanned pregnancy, followed by a shotgun wedding and years of unhappiness and acrimony; years not even relieved by the consolation of a bouncing baby who grew into a loved child as Angie had miscarried shortly after the wedding.
Rafferty felt certain that if Abra did turn out to be pregnant that the outcome wouldn't be anything like his previous experience. For one thing – and in spite of this recent turmoil – he believed he and Abra were soul mates in a way that he and Angie had never been. If only he could get over the bad memories, he might come round to the idea of fatherhood. He would have to, he acknowledged, as he was aware that if he didn't he might lose Abra altogether.
But for now, he knew he must put to one side all such thoughts and get on with the murder investigation.
Fortunately,
they didn't even have to trace Mary Soames. She came forward immediately she read of Clara Mortimer's brutal murder in the morning's Elmhurst Echo.
Mary Soames it seemed, like her late friend, Mrs Mortimer, was an early riser, for she had already rung the station and arranged for them to call to see her by the time Rafferty arrived at work.
As Rita Atkins had said, Mrs Soames lived in the southern outskirts of Elmhurst in a spacious, Georgian-style detached house enclosed within what looked to be about an acre of land.
As Rafferty and Llewellyn drew up outside the front door and parked on a short gravelled drive lined with what looked like hand-thrown tubs filled with deliciously scented pinks and butterfly lavender, Rafferty caught a glimpse of the tall chimney pots of another, much older house through the trees. He wondered if that had been where Clara Mortimer had previously lived. Mary Soames confirmed it when she opened the door.
Although elderly like Clara Mortimer, the two women appeared on the surface to have little else in common. Mary Soames was short and round, with a fresh, pleasant face that exuded interest in everything around her. She had certainly noticed Rafferty's drawing in of a deep, pink-scented breath, because she insisted on pulling some up by the roots to give to him.
‘Clara inherited the Little Dower House from her parents,’ she told them in response to Rafferty's question. ‘She sold The Manor, the original family home shortly after she inherited it. Understandable, I suppose, as the upkeep was crippling. But even the Dower House is a sizeable property, much too big for her, she said, and it was too far to town. We're not on a bus route here and Clara never learned to drive. She sold it in the new year.’ Softly, she added, ‘I think the memories that came with the house were another factor.’
‘Memories?’ Rafferty queried.
‘Her marriage broke up while she was living there.' Mary Soames gave them a warm smile. 'But let's not stand gossiping on the doorstep like a couple of fishwives, Inspector. If you've come to learn about poor Clara's life, you might as well do it in comfort. Come in.’
Mrs Soames led them through a large, bright hallway to a homely living room, scattered with evidence of many interests; books of poetry jostled for space with easels and watercolour paints. The black ink of calligraphy nestled dangerously close to delicate cobwebs of embroidery. Dust motes from tables that clearly received only a desultory polish danced in the shaft of sunlight beaming in through the surprisingly clean windows.
Mary Soames's hairpins and jewellery also managed to scatter themselves around the room. Her thick white hair was screwed into an untidy bun and every time she moved her head one more hairpin would fly out and another hank of hair would fall on to her neck. She jabbed it back with another pin taken from the capacious pocket of the paint spattered blue smock, but in the process managed to send one of her pearl studs flying from her ear, which the well-mannered Llewellyn retrieved.
But thankfully, while Mary Soames might not appear to have control over her hair or her jewellery, and while her living room might be a chaotic riot of hobbies, her control over her memory turned out to be excellent.
Over tea and biscuits, which she fetched on a tray from the kitchen after removing skeins of wool and a fat tabby cat from the armchairs so they could sit down, she told them more about Clara Mortimer's life.
‘Clara could be a bit rigid, I suppose. I've known her since she was a girl; we were at school together and I know she was very strictly brought up. Her family were well to do and they instilled in her the ‘right’ way to behave. Her rigid upbringing made her incapable of swaying with each passing social more. I imagine that's why, when her daughter told her she was getting divorced, she reacted so strongly.
‘There had never been a divorce in the family, you see,’ Mary Soames explained as she bit into her biscuit and scattered unnoticed crumbs.. ‘Clara hadn't even considered getting a divorce when her husband left her. Harry Mortimer has always been a bit of a rogue and is completely unreliable, but he can turn on the charm when it suits him - more's the pity for poor Clara. I often think she would have had a happier life if she had never met him.
‘Clara's parents always maintained she had married beneath her. I have to say I agreed with them. With all his love affairs and his careless fathering of other women's children he broke Clara's heart. I felt that Harry leaving her was the best thing that could have happened to Clara.’
She leant forward, picked up a photo from the cluttered side table and handed it to Rafferty.
'That's Harry Mortimer,' she said. 'It was taken on their wedding day.’
Rafferty wondered why she should trouble to show him a picture of Clara Mortimer's late husband since death had removed him as a possible suspect, but for politeness’ sake, he leaned forward and took it, anyway.
The strapping, handsome man in the photo had the mischievous, dancing eyes and ready grin that indicated he would be a handful, thought Rafferty. Beside him, Clara looked slim and demure in a sheath-style ivory dress and short, diaphanous veil. On closer inspection, although the demure expression remained, there was no mistaking the look of triumph in her eye. It proclaimed, that having caught her man, she had proved you could have your cake and eat it.
Given what Mary Soames had said about the marriage, Rafferty couldn't help but wonder how long it had taken for disillusionment to set in and for Clara to realise that, as a husband, Harry Mortimer wasn't, after all, such a great prize.
Once Llewelllyn, too, had glanced at the picture, Rafferty handed it back.
Mrs Soames returned the photo to the table and picked up her tea. It was in a thick earthenware mug rather than the exquisite and almost translucent china cups in Clara Mortimer's kitchen. But, given the way Mary Soames's possessions seemed to scatter about her, it was probably just as well she favoured more workmanlike drinking vessels.
‘Clara was ashamed that it should be her daughter who was the family's first divorcée, especially after the trauma she felt when Jane fell pregnant with Charles, her eldest.'
Rafferty, who had forgotten to make enquiries about the identity of the young man in RAF uniform in the faded sepia photo in Clara Mortimer's apartment, was thankful when Mrs Soames confirmed that the photo was that of Mrs Mortimer's elder brother, another Charles.
'Clara adored him. He died in the war, but he lived long enough to father two children who are both doing well, I believe, though since they emigrated to New Zealand with their mother, I've rather lost touch.
'I was pleased, for Clara's sake, when Jane and James Ogilvie married. I suppose I might have known it wouldn't last. Jane really went off the rails after that. Awful to say, perhaps, but maybe it was for the best that she miscarried several times after the marriage split. She was living a very rackety life at the time, so I imagine the babies stood a good chance of being damaged in some way."
'Talking about Mrs Ogilvie's children,’ Rafferty said. ‘For purposes of elimination, I need to find out the names and addresses of their fathers, but I didn't feel I could ask Mrs Ogilvie yesterday after breaking the news about her mother's murder. Did you know them? Or know their current whereabouts?'
'I met all three, but the only one I knew reasonably well was James Ogilvie. As for where they might be living now-' She shrugged. 'I doubt if Jane herself knows as she's never been a great one for keeping in touch.
‘I would imagine Hakim's father, Jamil Abdullah, has probably long since returned to Egypt; he was only here on a student visa and made no secret of the fact that his long-term commitment was to his homeland rather than Jane.
'As for Aurora's father – Earl Ray, he called himself, though I believe he also used several other names – was a bad lot, into buying and selling drugs. He's more than likely dead by now. I don't mind admitting I was glad when he cleared out of Jane's life. He wasn't a good influence on the children. Certainly neither of these men was what I would call good father material.
‘Unfortunately, with Jane, that's par for the course. She had always been something of a trial to poor Clara. Whatever Clara asked her to do, Jane did the opposite. Anyway, after their disagreement about the divorce things rather went downhill. Sometimes I swear that Jane behaved the way she did just to upset her mother. After all, she can't want to have had all of her children conceived with different fathers. Even though she's only a year off forty, Jane is still going through her rebellious teens in her head. The trouble is, Clara and her daughter never got on. Jane is too much like her father, but didn't inherit his charm. And then, I don't think Jane ever got over her father leaving. She thought Harry Mortimer was the sun, the moon and the stars.’
‘And what about James Ogilvie? Does he keep in touch with his son?’
Mrs Soames shrugged. ‘As to that, I wouldn't know. I haven't set eyes on young Charles for years.’ She smiled. ‘I rather think, in Jane's mind I was lumped together with her mother and dismissed as another straight-laced old woman. She certainly never encouraged her children to visit me.’