But, as Llewellyn commented, after his condemnation of his mother for her loose behaviour, he would be reluctant to admit the loss of both face and the high moral ground in front of her.
'Maybe he might be cajoled into telling the truth if I can get him on his own,' Rafferty commented. He glanced at his watch. 'Nearly school chucking out time. I'll get over to St Vincent's and waylay the lad.'
At 3.55, Rafferty stationed himself at the gates of St Vincent's School. Little more than a minute after the nearest church bell had chimed four, he was engulfed in the middle of a swarm of bumblebee dark brown and yellow uniforms of the youths and girls that rushed past him in their eagerness to escape the halls of learning.
Rafferty almost missed Hakim in the crush. It was only the boy's height, his proud carriage, and the desert night darkness of his hair that enabled him to spot him amongst the drab brown sparrow colouring of most of his schoolmates.
Jeered and heckled, promised a ‘duffing-up’ by one of the many overgrown youths as he pushed his way through the noisy throng in pursuit of Hakim, Rafferty just smiled and exchanged banter instead of wielding the authority of his warrant card.
Besides, he didn't fancy his chances against the boy, who towered above him and must be six foot four if he was an inch and weigh all of sixteen stone.
What on Earth was modern youth being fed? Rafferty wondered, bemused as this overgrown youthful tide engulfed him. Surely a diet full of Mac this and Mac that couldn't be responsible for the race of giants the country seemed to be breeding?
Having managed to avoid being on the receiving end of the promised duffing-up, Rafferty caught up with Hakim, who walked alone, apart from the little bevy of teenage girls who followed just behind and who were egging one another on to approach the boy.
Hakim, Rafferty noticed as he fell into step beside him, simply ignored the girls and their giggling. The teenager gave him one startled glance before his long-lashed eyelids swooped down as swift as a bird of prey over his amazing golden eyes.
‘Remember telling me you were at the mosque at the time your grandmother died?’ Rafferty remarked conversationally when they had finally put some distance between themselves and Hakim's lovelorn female fans.
Hakim gave him a wary, sideways glance and just nodded.
‘Then you won't be surprised that we've learned you weren't at the mosque at all.'
Rafferty wondered if Hakim had expected the Imam to lie for him to Llewellyn, the infidel; if so, he was doubly shamed – for lying and being caught lying. No wonder Hakim's high cheek-boned face took on a glowing red tinge that made him look even more broodingly handsome.
‘I suppose you were with a girl?'
When this question met with no response, Rafferty added, 'Okay, I can understand that you didn't want to say so in front of your mother, but your mother's not here now. So, come on – where were you really?'
Hakim shot him a sideways glance of pure hatred, but still chose to say nothing.
‘Good-looking lad like you must have your pick of the girls,’ Rafferty observed, ‘judging from the fan club behind us.'
This fan club had found sufficient bravado to coo after Hakim, ‘Hakim, we love you,’ much to this young man's barely concealed mortification.
‘So which one's your girlfriend’ Rafferty persisted. ‘My guess would be the pretty little blonde.'
His guess only elicited a scornful sneer.
'You might as well tell me,' he went on, 'because once we start asking questions, it doesn't generally take long for the answers to come out.’
His expression sullen, Hakim seemed to acknowledge the truth of this statement. After a few moments' more struggle, he supplied his girlfriend's name.
To Rafferty's surprise, rather than one of his pretty schoolmates, Hakim's preferred girlfriend turned out to be one of his neighbours, one Julie or “Jules’ as she preferred to call herself – Kirkland.
Jules Kirkland had more mature charms than the pretty little blonde that Rafferty had thought more likely to appeal to the handsome Hakim.
But when Rafferty managed to dredge her statement up from the many statements he had read, he realised that Jules Kirkland had been the only one of the neighbourhood adults not to have a down on Hakim. Now, he understood just why that should be.
Sixteen-year old Hakim glanced sideways and said, 'You seem surprised that I should prefer a mature woman to these silly young girls. But what can they teach a boy? If I was in my father's country, he would have already arranged for me to learn from an older woman how to become a skilful lover to spare me the shameful fumblings that pass for love-making in this country.'
Ouch! Rafferty thought at this as he recalled some of his own shameful youthful fumbling. An older woman would certainly have come in handy, then, he thought ruefully.
‘And you were with this Jules Kirkland around seven on the morning of your grandmother's death?’
‘Do not call her that,’ Hakim immediately flared at him. ‘She refused to acknowledge me as her grandson. Equally, I will not recognise her as my grandmother.’
‘Yes, well, that aside for the moment – were you with this Jules Kirkland on that morning? Yes or no?’ Rafferty repeated.
At Rafferty's subtle re-phrasing, Hakim supplied a tight-lipped ‘Yes,’ before his youth betrayed him and he asked Rafferty anxiously, 'you won't tell my mother, will you? Only… Only…'
Only the moral high ground will be pulled from under me, Rafferty guessed was what Hakim wanted to say, but what his pride wouldn't allow him to admit.
Given Hakim's understandable sensitivity about his father's failure to acknowledge him, his determined pride in his half-Arabic parenthood and his shame that the promiscuous Jane should be his mother, Rafferty felt a moment's pity for the teenager's obvious turmoil.
'Don't worry,' he assured the youth. 'As long as this Ms Kirkland backs you up, I can't see why your mother should have to know anything at all about it.'
From his expression, Hakim seemed split between acknowledging Rafferty's sensitivity and defending his honour after being found out in a lie.
Rafferty, recalling his own tortured, Catholic youth about sexual matters, patted Hakim on the shoulder and went off to question Jules Kirkand before Hakim felt obliged to bruise his honour further by voicing either reluctant thanks or churlish affront.
Chapter Twelve
After all the
lies and evasions of Jane Ogilvie, her boyfriend and children, Rafferty set out that evening after work, looking forward to the refreshing, uncomplicated task of doing his babysitting stint. Compared to his demanding detecting day job, he felt confident the babysitting would be a doddle.
With Gemma and her baby now out of hospital and back home with her mother, the much-anticipated evening of the boy band's concert had arrived.
Rafferty, determined to put things right between himself and Abra, determined also, to prove his worth as a potential daddy via his female family members' grapevine, had beaten off all-child-minding challengers.
He turned up bright and early for his baby-sitting duties. In case Gemma had come over all eco-friendly on the nappy front and decided to use terrys instead of the easier disposables, he'd even equipped himself with an instruction book written for new fathers which distilled wisdom on the nappy-folding, croup-curing and sleep-inducing fronts. Confident he'd covered all angles, Rafferty walked up the path and knocked on his sister's front door.
Maggie greeted his appearance with a doubtful expression. ‘Are you sure you understand what you're letting yourself in for, Joe?’ she asked as she took in the smart jacket and freshly-laundered white shirt that Rafferty had deemed appropriate attire for baby-sitting. ‘I didn't expect Mum to get Gemma and her friend tickets for this boy band for the same night Frank and I had arranged to go to an anniversary party. We don't have to go, of course…’
‘Don't be daft, Maggie-May. I can't have my sister all dressed up, pretty as a picture and going nowhere.’
It was true his sister looked a treat in a strappy, rich turquoise dress that emphasised the colour of her eyes. Her raven hair, piled loosely on top of her head, had tendrils trailing down. Altogether, she looked a knockout. Given that she rarely had an opportunity to dress up and enjoy herself, Rafferty wasn't about to be the cause of her cancelling a much looked-forward-to evening.
‘Well if you're sure…?’
‘I'm as sure as I'm sure I'm still standing here. Can I come in or am I to do my child-minding stint from the doorstep?’
Maggie laughed. ‘Idiot. Come in. The brats are all home,’ she warned. ‘Don't let them stay up too late.’
The eldest of Rafferty's three younger sisters had followed their mother's fecund childbearing example, though Maggie had stopped at four. At sixteen, Gemma was the eldest and the only girl.
Rafferty received an enthusiastic welcome from his nephews especially when they discovered he'd brought the latest fantasy film with him. Gemma was nowhere to be seen. He asked where she was.
‘Where do you think? She's upstairs making herself beautiful for Ciaran Prendergast, the boy band's lead singer’ Maggie told him. 'Now, let's get you sorted. I've left the phone number of our friends on the hall table. Call me if you have any problems.'
Maggie led him into the kitchen. She showed him the made-up bottles for the baby, the gripe water, the nappies – terrys - all ready folded into their kites much to his relief, as, in spite of the book that promised to instil wisdom in such matters, he hadn't had time to completely get to grips with the complexities of nappy folding. She explained how to heat the milk and how to make sure it wasn't too hot.
‘Oh, and don't–' she began before Rafferty cut her off.
‘Maggie, stop fussing. He's only a baby. How hard can it be?’
Shortly after, Frank, Maggie's husband, came bustling in, shouted Gemma away from her mirror and hurried the two women out the front door.
Maggie cast one last, anxious look behind her, which caused Rafferty to shout reassuringly, ‘Don't worry. We'll be fine. Be off with you and have a great evening, the lot of you.’
It was only five minutes later, after Rafferty had sat down between his nephews and settled back to enjoy the new film, when he heard the remembered piercing cries of his great-nephew.
Thirty
minutes later, the baby was still going strong. His three nephews had long since decamped upstairs, taking the latest film with them. He could make out the title music booming down the stairs as a block on baby nephew noise.
Rafferty bounced the baby up and down. He gurgled at him. Made faces at him. Shifted him from one arm to the other. Nothing shut him up.
He decided the child must be hungry and heated one of the prepared bottles. But when he tried to feed him, his great-nephew spurned his offer with indignant fury.
Nappy changing was equally unsuccessful – at least from Rafferty's point of view - though the baby would certainly have pleased the visiting nurse – and the advertisers currently proclaiming the containment properties of their eco-friendly terry's. Perhaps if Rafferty hadn't interrupted proceedings, the nappies would, as they proudly boasted, have contained the baby's emissions…
Why hadn't his sister warned him that the baby had the runs and could aim a deadly accurate stream of shit from a yard away? he wondered as with his free hand, he eased off his pebble-dashed once white shirt.
He laid the baby down in the corner of the settee on top of another couple of freshly laundered nappies while he went upstairs to have a quick shower and to search for a clean shirt in Frank's wardrobe.
He had hoped the baby might have dozed off in the interim. But there was to be no such luck, he realised, as he came downstairs and heard the baby still going at full-throttle above the noise of his nephews' film.
He still smelt faintly of baby-shit; he wondered if the kid had a bellyache. After wrestling the wriggling baby into another nappy, he decided to try him on the gripe water his sister had so thoughtfully left on the kitchen table.
Ten minutes and much frustration later, exasperation had begun to set in. The gripe water had failed to restore the desired sound of silence. Rafferty and the now red-faced baby tried out staring one another. The baby won.
‘Gemma's going to have her hands full with you, isn't she? Rambo, or whatever she's decided to call you,’ he remarked.
The baby replied with an even more ear-piercing crescendo of screams. More emissions escaped Rafferty's amateurishly applied nappy. Then he had a brainwave. Hadn't his ma confessed she'd sometimes had recourse to desperate measures when he or one of his five siblings wouldn't sleep?
He patted his pocket and brought out a slim metal flask. Luckily he'd brought the necessary with him: with three sons in their teens or near as damn it, his brother in law kept his booze firmly locked away, as Rafferty had had occasion to discover in the past.
‘This'll get you off,’ he promised the baby. 'It always works a treat on me.'
He warmed the milk up again then tipped some out to accommodate the Jameson's whiskey, before he screwed the teat back on.