Read Online The Hanging Tree by Geraldine Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Geraldine Evans
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the next ones. God
knew, from what he'd learned on the phone when speaking to some of Inspector
Stubbs' old colleagues, this one was likely to be difficult enough.
Archie Stubbs was reckoned to be a lonely and bitter man. It was odds on
that he'd resent their questions, their prying into his conduct of the Smith
case, the implication that if it hadn't been botched the victims and their
families would have suffered much less. Certainly, Massey would probably never
have tried to extract his own justice; never have gone to jail, lost his job,
had his marriage torn apart. The Walker girl would likely still be alive. Uneasily,
Rafferty realized he had yet to discover what other tragedies might have sprung
from Smith's release. Who amongst them had additional reasons to hate Smith?
Stubbs; Rafferty repeated the name of his next interviewee uneasily to
himself. In a way, he had become another of Smith's victims. He had lost his
career, been pushed into early retirement from the force, he'd even lost his
wife shortly after. Yet, if Stubbs had wanted revenge, he could have extracted
it long before this, as easily as the Bullocks; with his contacts he could have
found out Smith's whereabouts with little difficulty.
Maybe he had done so, but had, until now, been satisfied to simply keep
tabs on the man. Until now, Rafferty repeated to himself and wished he could
ignore the fact that an ex-copper like Stubbs would have the knowledge and
experience to commit murder and get away with it. That he hadn't done so ten
years ago was no reason to discount him as a suspect now.
Rafferty pulled up in front of the grim, grey-painted bungalow that was
Stubbs' home. He had only to compare the difference between Stubbs's property
and those of his neighbours', to know that the years had done little to
diminish Stubbs's bitterness.
Although it was December, the front gardens of the other bungalows in the
row were still gay and colourful, the plants obviously chosen specially to
withstand winter's blasts. Rafferty, who had recently taken over the care of
his mother's garden, which task was beginning to get beyond her, immediately
recognised the cheery yellow of the winter jasmine, the equally bright and
sunshine flowered witch hazel, the pink and white flowered Viburnums bright
against the glossy evergreen leaves of the Mexican Orange Blossom; all defied
the chill and proclaimed not only their owners' contentment with their lot, but
a certain quiet happiness. Archie Stubbs's garden displayed no such emotion; in
his, every season was the same, from fence to wall and back to fence, the rich
soil supported only a tough, black tarmac.
Stubbs appeared as uncompromising and as unwelcoming as his home. He was
fairly short, certainly at the lower levels of the old height requirements. Short
and grey, of face and manner, being monosyllabic to the point of rudeness, and
so obviously reluctant to talk to them that Rafferty thought they were going to
have to conduct their conversation on the doorstep. But Stubbs as suddenly
relented when one of his neighbours, a gnome-like little man of cheery red face
and genial air, shouted across to him that it was nice to see he had visitors.
Archie Stubbs scowled and told them, 'You'd best come in, before Happy
Harry comes across to join us.'
Although spotlessly clean, the inside of Stubbs's home was a repetition
of the outside; drab, grey and depressing. Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged a
glance as, through the partly-open door of the dining room, they both glimpsed
the yellowing piles of newspapers stacked on the table. Before Stubbs noticed
their interest and shut the door, Rafferty had read the headline on the
uppermost, and guessed the rest, too, were about the Smith case.
As they followed Stubbs to the living room and sat down, Rafferty
wondered how Stubbs would react if he told him that he and Smith had shared an
obsession. His earlier anxieties returned as he realized that, if anything,
Stubbs's old colleagues
knew, from what he'd learned on the phone when speaking to some of Inspector
Stubbs' old colleagues, this one was likely to be difficult enough.
Archie Stubbs was reckoned to be a lonely and bitter man. It was odds on
that he'd resent their questions, their prying into his conduct of the Smith
case, the implication that if it hadn't been botched the victims and their
families would have suffered much less. Certainly, Massey would probably never
have tried to extract his own justice; never have gone to jail, lost his job,
had his marriage torn apart. The Walker girl would likely still be alive. Uneasily,
Rafferty realized he had yet to discover what other tragedies might have sprung
from Smith's release. Who amongst them had additional reasons to hate Smith?
Stubbs; Rafferty repeated the name of his next interviewee uneasily to
himself. In a way, he had become another of Smith's victims. He had lost his
career, been pushed into early retirement from the force, he'd even lost his
wife shortly after. Yet, if Stubbs had wanted revenge, he could have extracted
it long before this, as easily as the Bullocks; with his contacts he could have
found out Smith's whereabouts with little difficulty.
Maybe he had done so, but had, until now, been satisfied to simply keep
tabs on the man. Until now, Rafferty repeated to himself and wished he could
ignore the fact that an ex-copper like Stubbs would have the knowledge and
experience to commit murder and get away with it. That he hadn't done so ten
years ago was no reason to discount him as a suspect now.
Rafferty pulled up in front of the grim, grey-painted bungalow that was
Stubbs' home. He had only to compare the difference between Stubbs's property
and those of his neighbours', to know that the years had done little to
diminish Stubbs's bitterness.
Although it was December, the front gardens of the other bungalows in the
row were still gay and colourful, the plants obviously chosen specially to
withstand winter's blasts. Rafferty, who had recently taken over the care of
his mother's garden, which task was beginning to get beyond her, immediately
recognised the cheery yellow of the winter jasmine, the equally bright and
sunshine flowered witch hazel, the pink and white flowered Viburnums bright
against the glossy evergreen leaves of the Mexican Orange Blossom; all defied
the chill and proclaimed not only their owners' contentment with their lot, but
a certain quiet happiness. Archie Stubbs's garden displayed no such emotion; in
his, every season was the same, from fence to wall and back to fence, the rich
soil supported only a tough, black tarmac.
Stubbs appeared as uncompromising and as unwelcoming as his home. He was
fairly short, certainly at the lower levels of the old height requirements. Short
and grey, of face and manner, being monosyllabic to the point of rudeness, and
so obviously reluctant to talk to them that Rafferty thought they were going to
have to conduct their conversation on the doorstep. But Stubbs as suddenly
relented when one of his neighbours, a gnome-like little man of cheery red face
and genial air, shouted across to him that it was nice to see he had visitors.
Archie Stubbs scowled and told them, 'You'd best come in, before Happy
Harry comes across to join us.'
Although spotlessly clean, the inside of Stubbs's home was a repetition
of the outside; drab, grey and depressing. Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged a
glance as, through the partly-open door of the dining room, they both glimpsed
the yellowing piles of newspapers stacked on the table. Before Stubbs noticed
their interest and shut the door, Rafferty had read the headline on the
uppermost, and guessed the rest, too, were about the Smith case.
As they followed Stubbs to the living room and sat down, Rafferty
wondered how Stubbs would react if he told him that he and Smith had shared an
obsession. His earlier anxieties returned as he realized that, if anything,
Stubbs's old colleagues
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