Concerto for Murder

By John Mullen

In the tranquil setting of the South Downs a killer is at large as a young girl suffers a cruel death, the second such death in the area. Law enforcement officers are under extreme pressure to apprehend the culprit and suspicion falls on a mild-mannered music teacher who is wholly innocent of the crime. Lies are told in open court that ensures his conviction and he is sentenced to life imprisonment. Young Detective Sergeant Josie Prentiss is deeply suspicious of the verdict and she will ensure that some form of justice prevails and the blame is attributed to the real killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035833580

Book preview

Prologue

It was totally unplanned and certainly unexpected. Usually, his vicious assaults were meticulously worked out well in advance of the attack. Time of day usually well after dark when he was not likely to be seen.

No possibility of any obstruction preventing him from a swift and safe getaway from the scene of his crime. Method adopted to neutralise his victim, a ham-fisted blow to the side of the head he had found to be the most effective method, no unwieldy weapon required that might help convict him if caught. Such was his modus operandi, really quite simple, which had served him well when embarking on one of his ruthless adventures. His target usually an attractive young girl, blonde or brunette, he was not fussy just as long as they were young and pretty. Caution was his watchword which was why he was never caught and it was this desire for self-preservation that stayed his hand for a moment. But only for a moment!

Sometimes, you just had to grab an opportunity like this whenever it came your way, however unexpected. She was wearing the briefest of shorts and with those long legs exposed, well, they just asked for it, didn’t they? Yes, it was totally unplanned. Suddenly, she was there before him, quite alone and not another soul in sight. She was truly beautiful and he could not restrain himself a moment longer as he launched his murderous attack.

Part One

Chapter One

The sun appeared to look surprised, as well it might, when it gazed down upon a stretch of coastline it had not viewed in many weeks despite its vantage point high in the sky. But to the hardy inhabitants of this stretch of shoreline of South East England, it was even more surprising as this was the month of April when the warmth of the sun was rarely felt in this part of the world. Frequently enveloped in cloud and encouraged by an often-vicious wind from the adjacent English Channel, rain was a constant feature of this part of the United Kingdom, a country renowned for its amount of annual rainfall, perhaps one of the reasons for it being known as a ‘green and pleasant’ land.

From the chalk cliffs looking out over the sea towards the coast of France, the usual number of fishing boats could be seen heading for the fishing grounds of the North Sea. This was an area that had caused acrimony between nations as to who had the right to fish there. Given enough time, this dispute was sure to fade away just as quickly as the number of fish themselves would diminish by the amount of overfishing that was allowed in that troubled part of the North Sea. There were many also of the larger ships of commerce of which there was a constant flow in both directions making this stretch of water one of the busiest waterways in the world. It had to be a challenge even for modern means of navigation to avoid which at times must appear like inevitable collisions between crafts.

A lone yacht could be seen battling the elements heading for the Solent and a safe berth at Lymington. One might wonder how dangerous that manoeuvre could be with so much commercial traffic to contend with, the sailing boat being at the mercy of the wind and its tempestuous moods, not to mention the tidal flow which, if on its way out, could prove to be unassailable for a small yacht and thus would be forced to retreat and wait for the tide to turn before being able to return to a safe harbour. During Cowes week, when literally hundreds of sailing craft invaded the Solent, it must create something of a nightmare for those responsible for public safety in this overcrowded waterway.

This same deep-water channel concealed the graves of thousands of lives lost throughout centuries of turmoil due to war and tempest. Yet this same waterway could boast of a miracle when many thousands of lives were saved during the epic retreat from Dunkirk at the outbreak of World War Two.

Even on a pleasant day like the one being experienced now the cold choppy surface of this historic stretch of water gave evidence of the dangers that lay beneath its surface. Despite the enormous loss of life over the centuries, even today families continued to risk all by attempting to cross the dangerous twenty odd miles of water between England and France. People who were desperate enough to flee the war-torn Middle East seeking refuge and a better life, risked death at every stride in their desire for a more settled existence for themselves and their families.

Many might ask, however, what was wrong with France as a place of succour, having reached that haven of safety? A peaceful democratic country with an elected parliament and a people noted for their culture and love of freedom and the arts. Why, having entered this sanctuary, would hordes of these families pay out thousands of pounds of their hard-earned savings risk their very lives still further in attempting the crossing of this notorious stretch of water in overcrowded cockleshell boats to reach the shores of the United Kingdom. Not even babies in their mother’s arms were seen to be a deterrent to undertaking the Channel crossing as many sad drownings have proved. A question that must remain unanswered with any degree of certainty as the debate continues with this conundrum.

Only the bands of those engaged in illegal trafficking of human cargos, without any conscience of the risk to human life they were causing, seemed to gain from this activity. A whole new illicit industry had sprung up to satisfy this chronic demand of those seeking a better way of life and quite prepared to risk life itself in their desperation to achieve it.

The United Kingdom government was spending millions of pounds annually in a vain attempt to put a stop to this human misery but with little success to date. The special squadrons permanently on guard to intercept the hundreds of unstable craft used to engage in this deadly pursuit saved many lives but sadly could not save all.

Alex Masterson hummed to himself contentedly as he drove along the A259 on his way home to Peacehaven in his new automobile—new to him, that is. The vehicle was several years old now and had belonged to an elderly gentleman who rarely took it out for a drive. This explained the very low mileage the vehicle had been driven since it was new and now Alex gained the advantage through the former owner’s reticence to take it on the open road. This lack of use served to explain the pristine condition of the car which Alex could now enjoy driving.

He did not earn a lot from his profession of music teacher. His speciality was the piano and it had taken him some years building up his reputation as a gifted instructor to be able to afford this delightful car. It was not a luxury; it was after all a very necessary means of visiting the homes of his many pupils to help hone their skills on what was to Alex the most attractive instrument of any orchestra. A generous legacy received by his wife from a recently deceased aunt had enabled them to clear the amount outstanding on their existing mortgage and enough left over to allow Alex to purchase the car of his dreams. It meant that he had been able to finally make this most desirable of purchases sooner than he might have expected. Many of his pupils came to his house in Peacehaven for practice but not all for various reasons. For those who could afford it, like his young pupil today, he was more than willing to make the journey to their homes.

This allowed him the excuse to blast off for the open road and absorb the thrill of travelling at speed while allowing for the strict speed limit imposed on the A259. Being a law-abiding citizen he was at pains to restrain himself from going any faster.

In fact this very morning had been a wasted trip as there had been no response when he rang the doorbell of the house he had been destined to visit by previous arrangement. He realised that he was very late due to a heavy goods lorry having broken down on the A259. The vehicle in question was enormous, a veritable warehouse on wheels and created a major problem for the poor guy allotted with the task of getting the thing moving again under its own steam. He was efficient at his job but it still took him over an hour to fulfil his task of clearing this monstrous obstruction from the path of other road users. This meant that traffic had been at a standstill until the breakdown vehicle had arrived on the scene to deal with the problem. The police in control of matters were doing their best to keep the traffic moving but it was inevitable that many people would be late for their appointments that morning, including Alex Masterson.

Nevertheless he had been stunned to find nobody at home despite his late arrival and he had wandered round the property peering through windows finding it hard to believe what he was experiencing. Finally, putting his card through the letterbox and shaking his head with annoyance, he returned to his car and took his appointment book from the glove compartment just to confirm that he had not got the date confused with any other. He had to concede that he was very late but surely that did not mean that he had abandoned the appointment altogether.

This was not his first visit so there was no question of him having gone to the wrong address. It was approached by a lane that led off the A259 highway a few hundred yards away and a bank of trees helped to deaden the sound of traffic from the busy motorway.

A large imposing property; even grand was not too strong a word to describe it. ‘The Haven’, as it was called, stood on a site that was all of three acres. The architect had made the most of the site to construct a building that he was determined would establish his reputation as a master of his craft. Facing south it contained five bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, the lounge was grandeur itself. The impressive front door was protected by an attractive porch which itself was an elegant feature of the property. The leaded lights used in the windows were reminiscent of the Tudor period which somehow added to the house an imposing air.

As per the owner’s strict instructions enough room was found within its four walls to create space for a full-sized snooker table which became the owner’s pride and joy. It was a haven where he could forget the cares of the world and could enjoy a game with a friend and leave the troubles of a busy life for a few hours. It was here he would entertain friends and colleagues on a winter’s evening when plenty of beer was a feature of the evening. All his family’s desires had been met including finding room at the side of the house for a tennis court which he knew would delight his only daughter. Fourteen-year-old Fiona was ecstatic when informed and hugged her father with delight when he outlined his plans to her. The imposing front porch fronting the mansion looked out upon well-tended lawns where Joan Dwyer was wont to hold the odd tea party to which she invited many of her friends and slyly a few that were not.

The house faced south, catching whatever sun might be available but it was more in hope than anticipation that Joan had planted a Passion flower supported by a trellis in the front of the new building, such a plant being more at home to the Americas rather than Europe. Her faith had been rewarded, however, when it flourished in its somewhat strange environment. Not only did it give off the most glorious scent when in bloom but in the fullness of time generously provided fruit that was truly delicious.

The beauty of the setting only added to Alex Masterson’s ire when he examined his diary and was able to confirm that he had not made an error. Cursing to himself with disappointment at the wasted trip he promised himself that he would demand compensation for his wasted journey. The little girl he was supposed to teach this morning did not have the slightest interest in music at all, never mind the piano.

A recalcitrant child at the best of times it was only her mother’s insistence that enforced Fiona to sit at the piano at all. She proved to be devious too as she was not above telling lies to get her way. She whined to her mother, ‘I don’t like the way he looks at me,’ referring to her teacher, quite happy to ruin a man’s reputation to get her own way. She knew exactly what she was hoping to achieve in making that accusation about her teacher. Everybody knew about Betty Sharp in 6th Form, how she was abused by her stepfather and all that entailed. It was the talk of the school for months. Fiona’s mother was oblivious to her pleas, however, and there was no escape from the loathed piano lessons. The annual Wimbledon Tennis Championships would soon come around which meant she would be glued to the television for the whole two weeks if she could get her way. Maybe she could feign an illness to ensure at least a temporary stay on the wretched piano lessons. It was her often declared wish that one day she would earn the right to play at this august tournament.

Had he not needed the money, Alex would long ago have abandoned all pretence and admitted that his time and the mother’s money were being totally wasted at this futile attempt to teach the child the most rudimentary skill with the instrument. Cursing to himself again at the wasted journey as he prepared to set off on the return trip, his anger quickly dissipated as he could not help enjoying the glorious morning and the fun he was experiencing in driving his new car. There were some clouds about but they were high in the sky and did not appear threatening. It was a day to celebrate life with the air pure and fresh sweeping in from a tranquil sea.

Chapter Two

Continuing on his journey, Alex ruminated once more on the enforced cancellation of his piano lesson. The mother of his pupil was a rather large forbidding lady who was very proud of her standing in the local community. She had every right to be as she contributed more than her share to the quality of life in that community. If assistance was required for any well-meaning cause, especially where the welfare of children was concerned, this lady was the one to contact and a ready welcome and assistance was assured.

Joan Dwyer was married to a very successful builder and developer and in fairness she had earned the respect of many by forming a community choir and as its conductor had enjoyed some success in area competitions. At least a couple of times a year she arranged concerts to raise money in aid of local charities for which she had earned their undying gratitude.

In addition, due to her dedicated work for good causes, she had been elected President of the local branch of Inner Wheel which could only add to her status in the community. Her husband Fred also enjoyed an enviable reputation as an active member of the local Rotary Club. A local builder, he was astute enough to have bought a tumbledown cottage requiring an awful amount of work for a bargain price. He promptly knocked it down exposing a highly desirable site upon which he put up a sumptuous new abode. Making the most of the site Fred erected a highly desirable five-bedroom house which was the envy of many. The site was large enough to incorporate a full-size tennis court, a sport his young daughter Fiona took to with gusto.

Fred could see that his daughter had the innate skill to become really good at the sport and had no hesitation in arranging for lessons to be given to her on the finer points of the game. The man he found for this important task was a semi-professional who had assured Fred that his daughter had what it took to become a first-class exponent of the game and could go far.

Joan Dwyer was running late. Today she was entertaining an important guest at the monthly meeting of her Inner Wheel branch and she just could not afford to be late on this occasion as she would never live it down. Her guest was none other than the famous television personality Lance Fortescue who was much admired for the funds he raised for a charity devoted to helping those afflicted by the painful condition arthritis. It was an interest shared by Joan who was delighted at her coup in getting him to accept an invitation to address her committee on this important subject.

She admired herself in the mirror now and wondered if a flowered dress and sling back shoes projected the right image for this important occasion. She definitely looked slimmer which was always a plus but then perhaps she was looking a bit too frivolous, not really the image she was seeking to project. With a sigh of frustration she exchanged the dress for a beautifully cut costume which had cost husband Fred an arm and a leg. Gazing in the mirror she nodded, yes, definitely more presidential, important to look the part, and gathering up her handbag and gloves she descended the staircase hoping that Fiona would make some complimentary remark. In this she was to be disappointed as her daughter was absorbed with her mobile and was in complete ignorance of her mother’s presence. She seemed totally spellbound by whatever she was seeing in front of her.

‘Drat it, where is the man?’ Looking at her watch Joan gave an exasperated sigh. Reaching a decision she called out to her fourteen-year-old daughter, ‘Fiona, I’ve got to go, I must not be late for this meeting. I’m sure Mister Masterson will be here any minute, he is usually so punctual, I cannot understand it. Are you sure you will be all right?’ feeling a pang of guilt at leaving her daughter alone.

‘Of course, Mummy,’ Fiona replied, giving an exaggerated sigh of impatience. ‘I am not a child. I am quite capable of looking after myself,’ never for a moment removing her gaze from the instrument in her hand.

‘Well, if you are sure, dear, I will be off,’ and kissing her daughter’s bowed head she swept out the door and jumped in her Mini Cooper. She was soon threatening to break the speed limit on her way to meet her famous guest.

Aged just fourteen Fiona was a beautiful girl with a tall athletic figure and gave every promise of becoming a raving beauty in a few years’ time. She had a wide generous mouth and on her chin she sported a tiny dimple which in time was likely to drive her masculine admirers mad with desire. It was to be compared to that of the beautiful actress Anna Chancellor who had scored such a hit in the widely acclaimed BBC’s television version of Jane Austin’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’ of some years earlier. Her throw-away line, ‘I am all astonishment,’ made with impeccable timing, was to be repeated in social gatherings for months afterwards throughout the country, always provoking laughter.

Fiona’s hair was a lustrous tawny colour and normally worn long but at this moment was swept back and tied in a pony tail. If she was to be asked what she would rather be doing, having piano lessons or playing tennis her reply was likely to be a caustic, ‘Playing the piano is a waste of time,’ and she would likely chortle as she headed for the court.

Her mother was no sooner out the door when Fiona, using her mobile, phoned her friend Betty Sharp. Her call was answered immediately by her friend. It was school holiday time and Fiona had every hope that Betty would pop round for a game of tennis and exchange all the local gossip. She knew too that Betty was partial to a glass of cider and with her mother out of the way was ready to dangle this temptation in front of her friend if necessary. But on answering her call not even this tempting offer was successful in luring Betty as her friend already had her coat on to accompany her mother on a longed postponed shopping expedition.

She tried several other classmates to see if any were willing to spend an hour or two on the court but without success, all pleading that they were already committed to other matters. Fiona had reason to doubt what she was being told, the other girls unwilling to act as a virtual ball girl for their friend well aware of her prowess on court, and with a sigh of disappointment had to resign herself to a lone practice session not for the first time.

Having failed to secure a partner Fiona went to the hall cupboard to retrieve her tennis racquet and carrying a string bag full of tennis balls she headed for the side of the property where her father had laid out this splendid full-size tennis court. It was the envy of all her friends and Fiona gloried in having this facility for her very own pleasure. Of course she would love to have someone to play with but until she was old enough to join a club where one had to possess a certain degree of proficiency at the game to be accepted as a member, she would just continue to improve her serve which after all was a vital part of the game. She occasionally persuaded someone from school to come and have a game but when they discovered that they spent most of their time retrieving balls that they had failed to make contact with they quickly became discouraged and rarely returned. Fiona’s serve was just too devastating to cope with. More than one youth had been chastened to find that he could not compete with Fiona when it came to tennis and soon beat a hasty retreat.

Performing a few stretching exercises to loosen her joints she began a series of serves before one went completely awry and disappeared over the wall into the lane that ran alongside the court. Stifling her annoyance at her clumsiness she hurried across and undid the simple bolt that allowed the iron gate to be opened and give access to a quiet byway. Unable to see the ball in the lane it was easy to guess that it had probably bounced onto the grass verge on the opposite side. With a sigh of resignation she ambled across and began to poke about desultorily through the long grass but was unable to unearth the missing ball, little realising that she was looking in the entirely wrong place.

Just five minutes later when she was about to give up the search to return to her practice a very colourful van came into sight. There was a large rabbit painted on each door which on close inspection could be seen to be just transfers which could be stripped off in a trice. The driver, when he stopped his vehicle and jumped out, showed himself to be equally brightly clad. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt with the word MIJAS embossed on the front. To describe the driver the word jolly might come easily to mind as he wore a wide grin when he approached Fiona and enquired, ‘Lost a ball, my dear?’ spotting the tennis racquet in the girl’s hand.

In the face of such open friendliness the girl felt no concern as she replied, ‘I am afraid so, not my best shot, for sure’ and continued to poke about. She was totally unaware of the danger she was in and would pay the ultimate price for her innocence.

‘Your partner not willing to help you? the man asked, glancing at the open gate to ensure that they were completely alone.

‘Lone practice today’ replied the young girl, thereby sealing her own fate.

Five minutes later the only sign that anything untoward had taken place was the sight of a gently swaying open gate and a little used tennis ball lying in the wayside grass. As if by design a chill wind had sprung up as though recent events had an adverse effect on the weather and suddenly grown cold.

What had just taken place was merely the beginning of a tragic story that would affect many lives for years to come.

Chapter Three

Patrick Rafferty was in a state of great excitement. In fact the adrenalin was pumping through his body at a dangerous rate. It had all been so unexpected, it was mind blowing. Normally he planned one of what he called his expeditions with the utmost care which was why he was still on the loose. He could not believe his luck to have come across such a corker all on her own just begging to be snatched. Even the weather had been in his favour for if it had been a wet morning he would not even have left his abode deep in the forest. He smacked his lips, today even the gods or whatever it was he chose to believe in had smiled down at him.

For some time this part of Sussex was plagued by the murderous presence in its midst of a serial killer who appeared to be able to stalk his intended victims and strike with impunity leaving the families utterly distraught and grieving the loss of their loved one. Rafferty, with his twisted mind, gave scant thought to the suffering his action inflicted on those left grieving their loss. He was totally without a conscience and solely concerned with his own gratification. No excuse could be found to excuse his ruthless behaviour. He was the very devil incarnate.

Rafferty’s life of criminality began when he was very young. His family came from a long line of travellers or perhaps better known in their native Ireland as tinkers. Originally in horse drawn caravans, they travelled around the poverty-stricken country seeking to carry out odd jobs in order to avoid starvation. Their main means of earning a few shillings was their ability to mend pots and pans, a talent for which many impoverished housewives were to feel grateful. For the cost of a few pence the life of an ancient saucepan could be renewed to give much needed further service. It was a precarious way of making a living but they had little choice as the country was still suffering from the effects of the recent famine caused by the failure of the potato crop practically the sole means of survival in Ireland so far as a daily intake of food was concerned.

Thus they would travel from town to town announcing their arrival in the community by parking their caravan in the marketplace and proceeding to create a din by banging together a pair of old saucepans beyond even their ability to repair. Often they found themselves with enough work to keep them busy for many days, thereby avoiding starvation.

Those were the days when hunger stalked the land and people were left dying in ditches for want of someone to dig them a grave. Over one million souls died in similar fashion while a further million fled the country in search of a more fulfilling life. The holds of ships bound for the Americas were filled to overflowing with emigrants desperately looking forward to a better life. Sadly a great many succumbed to disease or starvation long before they reached the promised land and were buried at sea, their dreams having ended in the hold of a ship.

By the time that Patrick was born life for most people had somewhat improved and Patrick’s mother, having had enough of travelling and with a baby now to care for demanded of her husband that as a family they should now settle in one location. It was the cause of much discord between the two, all the more surprising as the couple had always agreed on most things.

Mary Rafferty would brook no argument on this matter, however, and faced with this recalcitrant wife Sean Rafferty had no option but to agree to her demands.

He did force one important concession from her, however, with which she had to agree and that was that they had to continue living in a