The Spanish Connection: Rafferty & Llewellyn British Mysteries, #17

By Geraldine Evans

ʻThis series gets better and better.'

Little Laughter. A Little Mayhem. A Little MURDER…
*
A nine-month pregnant wife, a murder victim found on an archaeological dig minus his fingers, and very limited time, meant that Joe Rafferty wasn't a happy bunny. Superintendent Bradley, media darling and determined to stay that way, only added to Rafferty's stress.
*
They discovered that their murder victim had vanished from Spain, where he worked for Charlie Carver, a Mr Big of the Costa del Crime. But Rafferty's visit to Spain was cut short when to Abra went into labour. And despite his promises that he'd be there at his child's birth, wouldn't you know the French air traffic controllers had staged their usual summer strike.
*
Superintendent Bradley, with the heady thought of promotion filling his mind, demanded he get Charlie Carver, who'd be a big feather in his cap with the brass. But Rafferty was convinced Carver wasn't the murderer this time, whatever else he might be guilty of. Becoming a daddy for the first was a big thing for Rafferty, in more ways than one. But he didn't know how he was to satisfy Abra that he was pulling his weight with the baby and at the same time find the killer.
*
His first marriage had held similar demands, but he couldn't risk what he had with Abra, yet at the same time, he was determined to find the killer, whatever the cost.
*
ʻAlways entertaining.'
*

RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN MYSTERY SERIES

Dead Before Morning #1
Down Among the Dead Men #2
Death Line #3
The Hanging Tree #4
Absolute Poison #5
Dying For You #6
Bad Blood #7
Love Lies Bleeding #8
Blood on the Bones #9
A Thrust to the Vitals #10
Death Dues #11
All the Lonely People #12
Death Dance #13
Deadly Reunion #14
Kith and Kill #15
Asking For It #16
The Spanish Connection # 17
*
WEBSITE/BLOG: http://geraldineevansbooks.wordpress.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geraldine Evans
• Release date: Mar 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386826514

Geraldine Evans

A Little Laughter. A Little Mayhem. A Little MURDER... British mystery author Geraldine Evans is a traditionally published author (Macmillan, St Martin's Press, Hale, Severn House) who turned indie in 2010. Her mysteries include the soon-to-be 18-strong Rafferty & Llewellyn series of British Mysteries, whose protagonist, DI Joe Rafferty, comes from a family who think -- if he must be a copper -- he might at least have the decency to be a bent one. Her second is the 2-strong Casey & Catt British Mysteries, with protagonist DCI 'Will' Casey, whose drugged-up 'the Sixties never died', hippie parents, also pose the occasional little difficulty. She has also published The Egg Factory, a standalone mystery/thriller set in the infertility industry, Reluctant Queen, a biographical historical, about the little sister of Henry VIII, romance (under the pseudonym of Maria Meredith), and non-fiction (some under the pseudonym of Genniffer Dooley-Hart). Geraldine is a Londoner, who moved to a Norfolk (UK) market town in 2000. Her interests include photography, getting to grips with photo manipulation software, learning keyboards and painting portraits with a good likeness, but little else to recommend them. Why not sign up to her (irregular) newsletter for news of new releases, bargain buys and free offers? You can unsubscribe at any time and your email address will be kept private. Here's the newsletter link: http://eepurl.com/AKjSj WEBSITE: http://geraldineevansbooks.wordpress.com

Book preview

The Spanish Connection

Rafferty & Llewellyn British Mystery Series

Geraldine Evans

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Spanish Connection

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

BLURB AND REVIEWS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Blurb and Reviews

Chapter One

Chapter Two

BOOKS IN THE RAFFERTY AND LLEWELLYN BRITISH MYSTERIES

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Website: https://geraldineevansbooks.com

AUTHOR BIO

BRITISH ENGLISH USAGE AND SPELLING

Copyright

The Spanish Connection

Geraldine Evans

©Copyright Geraldine Evans 2016

Discover other books by Geraldine Evans at: https://geraldineevansbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, locations or events is coincidental or fictionalised

Except for text references by reviewers the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the author.

License Note: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy of each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Design by Nicole of covershotcreations.com

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

All Rights Reserved

BLURB AND REVIEWS

Little Laughter. A Little Mayhem. A Little MURDER...

A NINE-MONTH PREGNANT wife, a murder victim found on an archaeological dig minus his fingers, and very limited time, meant that Joe Rafferty wasn’t a happy bunny. Superintendent Bradley, media darling and determined to stay that way, only added to Rafferty’s stress.

They discovered that their murder victim had vanished from Spain, where he worked for Charlie Carver, a Mr Big of the Costa del Crime. But Rafferty’s visit to Spain was cut short when to Abra went into labour. And despite his promises that he’d be there at his child’s birth, wouldn’t you know the French air traffic controllers had staged their usual summer strike.

Superintendent Bradley, with the heady thought of promotion filling his mind, demanded he get Charlie Carver, who’d be a big feather in his cap with the brass. But Rafferty was convinced Carver wasn’t the murderer this time, whatever else he might be guilty of. Becoming a daddy for the first was a big thing for Rafferty, in more ways than one. But he didn't know how he was to satisfy Abra that he was pulling his weight with the baby and at the same time find the killer.

His first marriage had held similar demands, but he couldn't risk what he had with Abra, yet at the same time, he was determined to find the killer, whatever the cost.

ʻThis series gets better and better.’

ʻAlways entertaining.’

Chapter One

This novel uses British English, so if there is a word or phrase you don’t understand, there is a handy alphabetical listing at the back.

‘SHH,’ SAID MATHESON. ‘What was that?’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

The two young police constables on night duty were freezing, even though it was July. They were concealed in the ditch at the side of a farmer’s field that had become an archaeological dig since Old Farmer Giles found some ancient treasure.

Nighthawks had come visiting in the early hours two days ago, looking for what they could steal. One of the professors with the dig had called in a favour from the Superintendent, and Matheson and Peters had been here on night duty guarding the dig site ever since. But it was now Sunday and the Nighthawks hadn’t been back. That didn’t make them feel any better. If anything, the anticipation, the expectation that they would be back for another go, made them feel progressively more jittery.

The sky crouching over them like some huge Mantis didn’t help. It was as black as the devil’s soul, and they spoke in whispers so they wouldn’t waken...whatever was out there. Each was grateful for the other’s presence, though neither would ever admit that they felt intimidated by the vast black sky and the fear of eternity. It was silent, apart from some cows lowing in an adjacent field, and Peters shifted uneasily, his behind numb from sitting on the hard packed earth. At least it was dry, for which he was grateful, as he remembered his Gran’s warning about damp ground and chills in the kidneys. He shivered, not only from the cold, and spoke again just for the reassurance he gained from hearing his own voice.

‘Matheson?’

‘What?’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Five minutes later than the last time you asked me.’

‘No, really.’

Matheson sighed and squinted at his illuminated watch. ‘Four o’clock. Why? You got somewhere important to go?’

‘No. Worse luck. Never thought it’d be like this when I joined the police. I’ve got this new girlfriend, see, and—’

‘Shh. There it is again.’ Matheson wriggled himself up, and looked over the rim of the ditch.

But it was a moonless night, and Peters doubted he could see anything; he could barely see his hand in front of him. But he asked anyway, just to hear his voice once more. ‘What can you see?’ he questioned, hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

‘Nothing. I’m going to look round.’

‘What about me?’

‘Wait here.’

Matheson snaked his way up and over the ditch, then keeping low, he vanished round the side of a heap of soil from the dig.

‘Matheson?’ Silence.

Peters heard nothing for a long five minutes. He felt abandoned to the darkness, to the fear. Then he heard a thump and more silence. Peters waited, getting increasingly agitated. But he heard nothing further. In a quavering voice, he called Matheson’s name again. No answer.

Seriously worried now, Peters tugged at his uniform jacket. Its shiny buttons reminded him that he was an officer of the law and it gave him the spark of confidence that was previously lacking. Peters crawled out of the ditch. He stilled as he heard a car start up. Then he began crawling again. Two minutes later, he found Matheson. He was sprawled out on one of the heaps of soil excavated from a trench, unconscious.

Peters’ heart thumped so loudly, he thought whoever had attacked Matheson must hear it and come after him. If he hadn’t gone off in that car. He looked around fearfully. Then he saw another body. It was at the bottom of one of the trenches, and utterly still, just like Matheson.

With shaking hands, he wrestled to free his radio, fighting a growing urge to run. Then called it in.

All he could do then was wait. Alone. In the darkness.

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Joe Rafferty gazed around at the archaeology site that was now the scene of a murder inquiry.

Strangely, it looked just like a builder’s site, without the steel skeleton thrusting to the sky, of course, but the same piles of muck. The same builders’ bums from some of the low-slung jeans were much in evidence, among the students at least. He almost began to feel at home. All that was lacking was the good-natured joshing of the building crew. But the lack of joshing reminded him forcefully that this wasn’t a building site, and that camaraderie was noticeable only by its absence. The natives were distinctly unfriendly, too. Rafferty began to feel less at home.

Whoever had attacked the dead man had also attacked the young uniformed officer, Matheson, who was currently in hospital still unconscious. His parents were with him. Rafferty had called to let them know as soon as he heard what had happened to him. He’d asked them to inform him as soon as he regained consciousness. If he regained consciousness...

On getting Peters’ report, aware that Bradley was likely to be on his back for this one, he’d called at the B & B where the dig staff were staying, rousted the site supervisor, Humphrey Wiggins, from his bed, and taken him to the site. But he had claimed he didn’t know the dead man, and demanded where were Rafferty’s men who were supposed to be guarding the site against events like this.

Rafferty looked hard at him. He felt conscious of the weight of responsibility: for young Matheson, unconscious in hospital; for Peters, struggling bravely to keep the tears at bay for his friend. Wiggins was the sort of man he found it difficult to like. Officious, lacking any discernible spark of humour, and determined to insert his snout in anything and everything to do with the dig. Even murder. He was short with him. ‘In hospital. He was attacked.’ Left for dead like the corpse.

It was beginning to get light, and the dig staff, in spite of being told to remain at the hotel, had come to take a look. Rafferty had herded them behind the police tape, apart from the humourless Wiggins, whom he had led down the designated path in his police protectives, to see if he knew the dead man.

It was unfortunate that Wiggins had been unable to identify him. He was supposed to conduct a murder inquiry, yet from the looks of things, he wouldn’t have nearly enough men. Anyway, these Nighthawks could have come from anywhere in the country. Disappeared back there, too. But, as time wore on, the more Wiggins had been insistent that these Nighthawks were the ones responsible, the less Rafferty was convinced. Wiggins had seen the doubt and it made him even shriller, unfortunately, until Rafferty could tolerate no more and had the man conducted back behind the tape with his colleagues.

That’s what the people who robbed archaeological digs were called, apparently. Nighthawks. At least according to Llewellyn, who’d proceeded to give him a mini lecture on the subject. They descended more like vultures than hawks, but night-vultures didn’t make a good soundbite, he supposed. Whatever their name, they left desolation in their wake. Possibly, their victim was one of the Nighthawks. Possibly.

Superintendent Bradley had already turned up and left again, to prepare his sound bites for the media. In his head, Rafferty replayed it. Bradley had half-prepared his talk for the benefit of the press, and practised a few lines for Rafferty’s benefit. But Rafferty felt that calling the Nighthawks animals and despoilers didn’t really help matters. Especially as they could be looking at something altogether different here. It was just too pat, too easy, to blame some mythical Nighthawks, who could apparently appear and disappear at will.

Behind him, he could hear the archaeologists bemoaning time lost before they had agreed to pack up and leave. They had told him the farmer wanted them hurried up and gone, so he could get his late potatoes in. Or, more likely, look for any buried treasure the archaeologists had missed. Between them all, Rafferty had plenty of aggravation.

And when an eminent professor, and his equally eminent colleagues, had turned up, he realised that Bradley wasn’t the only one expert at manipulating the media. The profs seemed more than capable of giving Bradley a run for his money in the soundbite stakes, to judge by those they’d directed at him.

Things weren’t looking good for the person who had to investigate the murder. With morbid humour, he imagined what would happen were he to call in reinforcements. Ma, for instance. As his mouthpiece, she’d give them all a lesson they wouldn’t forget in a hurry, that was for sure. Reluctantly, he put the thought aside, and concentrated on the murder scene.

‘Get that, will you, Adrian?’ he said, pointing to a particularly clear footprint.

‘I’ve seen it. You’d have to be blind not to,’ replied Adrian Appleby, the Head Crime Scene Investigator.

Rafferty nodded with satisfaction. ‘Just checking.’

The footprint wasn’t the dead man’s, that was for sure. He had a pair of smooth-soled black leather shoes. Peters, for some reason, had been at pains to describe them, although he could see them well enough for himself. But, if it helped him, Rafferty was prepared to listen any number of times. After all, Peters had spent uncomfortable minutes alone with the dead man before either paramedics or his police colleagues had arrived. He’d commended Peters, who, torn between his injured colleague and their murder victim, had remembered his training, and remained with the corpse once the paramedics had taken Matheson to hospital. Rafferty didn’t envy him. It was a lonely spot, even the students hadn’t been in occupation of their ramshackle caravans. They had said they’d gone to an all-night party.

The site was dry, but there must have been water or some other liquid spilt quite late the day before, because it had taken the print. A partial, anyway. Might be good enough if they were fortunate enough to find his killer. Always assuming he hadn’t noticed it and got rid of the shoes he’d been wearing. And always assuming that it hadn’t been that of one of the ambulance men called out to Matheson. At least, at young Peters’ insistence, the paramedics had agreed to leave the corpse here, once they’d checked his vital signs and were sure he was dead.

He turned to Llewellyn. ‘Ask the photographer to take a shot of the dead man’s face, and get it out to the media. Someone might recognise him. Good job his face is intact, anyway. Tell him to make the victim look more alive than he usually manages.’

‘I’m sure he knows his job,’ Llewellyn murmured, before he went off to find the photographer, and translate Rafferty’s English into suitable diplomatic argot.

Rafferty looked around. There were large tents, and small tents, various trenches and heaps of soil, even a couple of caravanettes that two of the students had borrowed off their fathers to save money in lodgings. Or so they claimed. Rafferty thought it more likely it was so they could do drugs in peace. Though who would be likely to stop them was a moot point, as the professors looked far more disreputable than the students. Long hair and jeans were much in evidence, though the hair, at least on the professors, wasn’t so plentiful on the top of their heads.

The earth-digger was silent. The man who operated the machine was another one agitating for them to remove the dead man, soon as. But he couldn’t do anything about that till Sam Dally got here. Even then they’d be delayed as long as the forensic team were here, and the SOCOs were likely to be here for days. He’d got everyone, be they ever so eminent, herded behind the police tape, and they were all looking at him with varying expressions of venom, as if they wanted to murder him.

Rafferty did his best to ignore them. He pulled back his protective clothing and looked at his watch. Where the hell was Sam Dally? Already he’d been here for an hour and a half and there wasn’t a sign of him.

‘Inspector Rafferty. I really must protest. This is quite intolerable.’ That was the head honcho of the professors. Again. He recognised Fanshaw’s voice, even though he was turned away from him and his colleagues. He wished he didn’t.

‘Protest all you like,’ Rafferty muttered irritably. ‘You’re still not coming back on.’ Seven o’clock on a Monday morning; he could think of ways he’d prefer to start the working week. But as the man was a personal friend of the superintendent, he had no choice but to force on his crowd-pleasing face. Not too successfully, if the looks he received in return were anything to go by. He walked over and focused on the face that had given him most aggravation from the start. ‘I’m sorry, Professor, but until Dr Dally gets here my hands are tied.’

Professor Fanshaw narrowed his eyes, the better to look daggers at him. Of the three professors, Professor Fanshaw looked almost smart in his check jacket and corduroy trousers with ironed-in seams. They looked new, too. At least they weren’t the baggy disreputable clothing that the rest seemed to favour. He had a fine head of hair, grey, but still with a lot of black in it, though this looked thoroughly disreputable. Dragged through a hedge backwards was a phrase that sprang immediately to Rafferty’s mind. It made him feel better that the eminent professor had hair that was even more unkempt that his own.

‘Where is he?’ Fanshaw now demanded.

It was a question Rafferty had asked himself repeatedly in the past hour-and-a-half. ‘I’m sure Dr Dally’s on his way,’ he reassured for the third time. ‘But he has a large area to cover and he lives some distance away.’

‘Really, this is intolerable,’ the professor complained again. ‘We have an extremely limited time for this dig, before Mr Giles wants his field back. Do you not understand how important this site is? The finds really are quite remarkable. That we should be held up for—’

The professor stopped himself, just in time, before he could be judged guilty of the social terrorism of political incorrectness. Rafferty stopped himself just in time, too. From grinning. Only, he’d never thought there’d come a day when he’d be pleased about the PC anointed, and their ability to stop a man in his tracks.

My find’s pretty remarkable, too, he felt like saying. I’ve got a dead man in a hole with his scull caved in. I think my find trumps yours. For now, anyway.

‘Can’t you telephone him?’ asked Professor Wiley. Or Pace. He wasn’t quite sure which, as he hadn’t sorted them out in his mind yet. Only, he didn’t think anyone would appreciate that he was only human, were he to ask for clarification just yet. There’d been so many people clamouring at him to do something for the ninety minutes he’d been at the dig that it was a wonder he remembered his own name.

‘I have telephoned him.’ Repeatedly. He’d tried his home phone, his mobile, the mortuary. Nada. Dally just wasn’t answering. Who the hell did they think he’d been calling? Mickey Mouse? A pity he didn’t have Mickey’s number—at least he’d entertain the crowds. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long,’ he soothed again, and wished he could believe it. Wished also, that Llewellyn would come back and relieve him of this diplomatic aggravation. Because, although his sergeant mightn’t be up there with the brilliant Sherlock when it came to solving crimes, at soothing ruffled feathers he was a veritable genius, and Rafferty would be more than grateful to acknowledge this superiority and to pass the baton.

He spotted Mary Green give him the nod. At last, he thought, with relief, as he saw Dally’s chubby figure come into view. Rafferty hurried over. ‘The crowd’s getting restive,’ he said, the strain showing in his voice. ‘Where’ve you been, Sam?’

Sam looked irritably at him. ‘Where’ve I been? I’ll tell you where I’ve been. Sitting on the toilet, with an attack of the squibs, that’s where.’

Rafferty found a grin from somewhere. Then he remembered where Sam had been last night. His house. Eating dinner. Which he had cooked. He lost the grin. Perhaps after the last hour-and-a-half he was getting defensive, because he immediately protested, ‘Don’t blame me. I’m not responsible. I’m all right. Abra’s all right. So it can’t have anything to do with what I cooked you.’

‘So you say, Rafferty.’ Dally’s digestive system made some unpleasant noises that had him squirming. He shut his eyes briefly, opened them again, and took a deep breath. ‘But if I do something unmentionable, on your head be on.’

‘I do hope not,’ said Rafferty. ‘Though you’ll have to grow a bit taller for that. But the Incident Room van’s all set up, Sam. Come along with me and you can go in there.’

‘No.’ He closed his eyes again, took another deep breath, then blew it out sharply.