RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Read online

  '"Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd."'

  'William Congreve,' Llewellyn added sotto voce.

  'Is that what you think?'

  'I was just wondering if Miss Parry finally realised on Friday night that she meant nothing to Dr. Whittaker. I wondered if she could have lied about losing her keys. Whether, rather than trying to shield him, she's been deliberately trying to lead our suspicions to him as a punishment for not desiring her.'

  'You're a deep one, aren't you?'

  Llewellyn shrugged wordlessly.

  'Perhaps she killed the girl herself,' Rafferty threw in a suggestion of his own for good measure. He didn't want Llewellyn getting above himself in the ideas department. 'And got back at both Melville-Briggs and Whittaker, both of whom probably used her in different ways. After all, she was hardly a prominent guest at The George and unlikely to be missed.'

  'But she had no transport,' Llewellyn objected. 'She'd hardly take a taxi from The George to the hospital, tell the driver to wait while she killed the girl, and then calmly drive back as if nothing had happened.'

  'Mmm. That's true. But, I think we ought to investigate Miss Parry's alibi a little deeper. She picked up her car from the hospital some time over the weekend. Why not that night? She could have overheard Whittaker arranging the meeting with Linda and been overcome with jealous rage. She could have paid the taxi off at the hospital, murdered Linda and drove away in her own car.' He sighed. 'Perhaps we ought to check out the cab firms? See if anyone at the hospital noticed her car missing from the car park on Saturday morning.'

  Llewellyn nodded and asked, 'So you think it's a case of "Dux femina fact"?'

  'What?' Rafferty scowled again.

  Llewellyn sighed. 'Or "Cherchez la femme", if you prefer.'

  Rafferty preferred plain English and told him so.

  Chapter Eleven

  BY THE NEXT DAY, THEY'd managed to turn up nothing on the cab firms and the hospital staff were extremely vague about precisely when Miss Parry had picked up her car, but that was about par for the course, Rafferty reflected wearily.

  None of the staff, or those patients whom they'd so far spoken to, had admitted to knowing Linda, either. Nor, at the hospital or anywhere else, had anyone identified the girl in the pub from Smythe's photo fit—at least, they hadn't identified her to Rafferty, whatever they might have suspected privately, and he wasn't hopeful that anyone would.

  That was why, when the telephone rang, he anticipated only further failures, especially when he heard Llewellyn's voice on the other end.

  But incredibly, for once, the Welshman had a result for him. It brought about a complete revival of Rafferty's optimism. At last, someone from the hospital had recognised the photo-fit of the girl in the pub.

  'Keep her there,' Rafferty ordered ebulliently. 'I'm on my way.'

  'But Sir, I think I should warn—'

  'Not now, Llewellyn. Whatever it is will keep. I'll get there as fast as I can.' Rafferty grinned, dropped the phone on its rest and made for the door. No doubt, Llewellyn was worried about his precious car and imagining the squeal of brakes and the smell of burning rubber as Rafferty tore through the miles separating them. Well, he'd have to bear it as best he could. This might be the breakthrough they'd been looking for and he wasn't going to waste any more precious time pandering to Llewellyn's mechanical sensitivities.

  God knew they needed a breakthrough, because ironically, although they were overloaded with suspects, they had no firm evidence against any of them. The latest news might make all the difference.

  EAGERLY RAFFERTY MADE his way through the empty passages and pushed open the door of their temporary office. He stopped short when he saw the woman with Llewellyn and shot his sergeant a reproachful glance. Was this the witness in whom he'd placed such hope?

  She must be eighty if she was a day, he guessed. Dim, rheumy blue eyes peered vaguely out at him from a mass of wrinkles and her head nodded continually on her thin neck. It seemed likely she'd have difficulty remembering her own name, much less anyone else's.

  Rafferty's eyes swivelled to the right, and he frowned. Nurse Wright sat silently by the door, while her charge was interviewed, as though she didn't trust them not to browbeat the old lady. She needn't think she was going to listen in, Rafferty vowed. Her behaviour over the missing note had already irritated him and he wasn't inclined to conduct the interview with her listening in.

  'Please wait outside, Nurse,' he said sharply. 'Llewellyn, escort Nurse Wright to that little waiting room we've arranged and then come back. Sergeant Llewellyn will call you when we're finished, Nurse.'

  Nurse Wright opened her mouth as if to protest, but after one look at Rafferty's implacable expression, she shut it again. She stopped only long enough to direct a dirty look in his direction, before she flounced out.

  When Llewellyn returned, he nodded at Rafferty to confirm the nurse was safely ensconced on the other side of the bolted door. Turning to the old lady, Rafferty swallowed his disappointment and smiled as Llewellyn introduced them.

  She inclined her head in a gesture meant to be gracious, but there was more of pathos than regality in the movement and it touched a nerve of memory in Rafferty that ensured his voice was gentle. 'It's very good of you to come and see us, Mrs. Devine.'

  'That's quite all right, young man. Only I do hope it won't take long. Only, you see, my daughter's coming to see me today. She always comes to tea on a Friday,' she told him. 'Four o'clock prompt. Never misses. And I do want to make sure everything's perfect.' With a glance at the door, she confided in a loud whisper, 'It isn't always, you know.'

  'Please don't worry, Mrs. Devine. This will only take a few minutes.' He pulled a chair up and sat beside her. 'Now, perhaps you could start by telling me when you saw her last?'

  The question seemed to trouble her a great deal. The smile faded to be replaced by a worried look, as though she had been found out in some deception. Her head shook more agitatedly than before and her eyes filled with the easy tears of the very old.

  'Take your time, Ma'am.' Moved by compassion, Rafferty spoke in comforting tones, as Llewellyn, clearly embarrassed, shuffled his feet. The old lady's behaviour seemed to make the Welshman uncomfortable, but Rafferty was used to the very old.

  Hadn't his grandparents ended their lives in the cramped Rafferty home? Many a time as a teenager, he had spoon-fed his grandmother her meals, wiping the dribbled food and saliva with a cloth; many a time, too, he'd comforted her when she'd wet her bed and cried befuddled tears from an indistinct feeling of shame.

  Then his tenderness had sprung from a wealth of fond memories of childhood when his Gran had gamely bowled to his fantasy Colin Cowdrey batting. She hadn't been half a bad bowler either, he remembered.

  It was those fond memories that now served to remind him that Mrs. Devine, too, was maybe somebody's loved granny and patiently, he attempted to rekindle her recollection. 'Perhaps it was here in Elmhurst?' he suggested gently.

  Llewellyn made an attempt to overcome his own discomfort. 'You said you met her in London,' he prompted, in the loud tones some people use to the aged, as if they are all hard of hearing.

  Rafferty could see comprehension and something like relief fight their way through Mrs. Devine's clouded brain and he stifled a grin as she directed a look of scorn at Llewellyn.

  'I didn't think you meant her,' she informed him tartly.

  For a few seconds, intelligence gleamed out of the rheumy eyes; the nodding head stilled, and Rafferty caught a glimpse of the woman she must once have been, before old age had caged her sharp mind in a fog. He bet she'd been a bit of a tartar; the sort unwilling to suffer fools at all, never mind gladly. As Llewellyn had just discovered.

  'I thought you were talking about my daughter.' She gave Rafferty a coy glance. 'Are you married, young man?'

  'No Ma'am.' Not any more, thank God, he thought.

  'Then you must come and take tea with us. With my daughter and myself. You'll like her. S
he's such a thoughtful girl.'

  'That's kind of you, Mrs. Devine. Perhaps another time, when I'm not so busy?' He took the photo-fit from Llewellyn. 'I understand you recognised the girl in this picture?'

  Mrs. Devine's nose wrinkled faintly. 'Oh her. That's Miranda...Miranda... I can't recall her other name. I used to see her regularly at Dr. Melville-Briggs's London consulting-rooms, before, before—' She broke off.

  Before her family had had her put away, Rafferty concluded.

  Her expression was anxious, as though she realised deep within her that there had been a time when she had been very different. The realisation clearly upset her and although, not surprisingly, she was reluctant to bring past and remembered reality into her present unhappy situation, somehow, she gathered a tattered dignity about her and went on, quite lucidly.

  'I had a weekly appointment and she saw Dr. Melville-Briggs after me, which I thought a little strange as I always asked for the latest appointment and by the time my consultations finished, the staff had left. I often suffered from giddiness and used to retire to the ladies' room till I felt more composed and generally, I'd find this Miranda lurking in there, quite furtively, as though she didn't want anyone to see her. Very odd it was. She wasn't a very pleasant young woman. On the few occasions I tried to engage her in conversation, she was unpleasant, really quite rude, in fact. So unnecessary.' She looked distressed for a moment as though the memory was particularly unpleasant and etched forever in her mind. 'I recall her eyes glittering at me quite furiously as though I had no right to be there.' She handed the picture back with a look of distaste and, rising unsteadily to her feet, made for the door.

  'Just a moment, Mrs. Devine. Llewellyn ask Nurse Wright to come back, please.'

  Nurse Wright returned just in time to hear Mrs. Devine repeat her invitation to Rafferty. For some reason it made her smirk.

  'I'll expect you for tea with my daughter next Friday then, young man. At four o'clock. Anyone will direct you.'

  'I'll look forward to it, Mrs. Devine.'

  The nurse hovered in the doorway as though torn between Rafferty and her charge. Rafferty won. 'You don't want to believe everything Mrs. Devine says, you know,' she advised sharply. 'She wanders in her mind.'

  Rafferty's mind did a little wandering too, to the interesting question of why she should seek to convince him that the old lady was unreliable as a witness. 'Her mind seemed sharp enough to me,' he remarked tautly.

  The nurse gave a derisive smile. 'You think so? She invited you to take tea with her daughter, Inspector, but I wouldn't bother turning up next week if I were you. She hasn't seen her daughter once in the nine months that I've worked here. The visits are as much fantasy as whatever she dragged you over here to listen to. She's probably seen you about the hospital and wanted to look you over to decide if you were suitable husband material for her daughter. Match-making is one of her obsessions, unfortunately.’ Nurse Wright grimaced. 'I suppose she'll be ringing up caterers next to arrange the wedding. She did that last year when one of the doctors took her fancy. We had the devil of a job convincing the firm that the wedding was all in her mind. So you see, you can take whatever she told you with a large pinch of salt.'

  'I'll bear it in mind,' he told her dryly, reluctant to let the nurse have the satisfaction of the last word. 'Though she seemed lucid enough to me. The bit about the daughter was wishful thinking – dreaming – we all do it. But the other part seemed real enough. She didn't particularly want to remember—' He grinned teasingly at the nurse's avid look, 'what she told us. You see the difference?'

  She gave him a withering look as though to say, "Not another amateur psychologist?" Then she shrugged and remarked tartly. 'Believe what you like, Inspector. Only I still wouldn't bother turning up for tea next week. She'll have forgotten all about you and it by four o'clock today, never mind next Friday.'

  'Perhaps. But if Mrs. Devine remembers anything else, I want you to tell me.'

  The nurse looked as if she would like to tell him what he could do with his wants and her attitude angered him. 'One girl has been murdered,' he reminded her sternly. 'Information can be dangerous. It's better passed on to the police. I'd like you to remember that.'

  'But you've arrested Simon Smythe for the murder. I hardly think—'

  'Dr. Smythe has not been charged with murder,' he told her with quiet satisfaction. 'Nor do I anticipate that he will be.'

  Nurse Wright's mouth dropped open in a perfect "O" of surprise. 'But Gilbert told me he saw him being driven off to the police-station. He hadn't come back to the hospital since and Gilbert said—'

  'Never mind what Gilbert said,' Rafferty snapped. 'You might tell Gilbert that I said that if he's not careful someone might just sue him for slander.'

  The nurse nodded quickly and shut the door behind her, no doubt eager to pass on the latest news about Smythe.

  Rafferty went over their latest information. Smartly-dressed and nicely-spoken was how the landlord had described the girl in the pub, something of a looker, too, he understood. Smythe had suggested she had been waiting for someone. Mrs. Devine had identified Smythe's identikit picture as this Miranda; could she be the same girl who had given Nurse Wright the note for Melville-Briggs?

  She certainly sounded the type who might appeal to the doctor and it seemed she'd made a point of seeing him very privately. If she was this Miranda, presumably she had been hanging around the scruffy neighbourhood pub waiting for him, not realising that he was out on the town. It seemed an unlikely venue for the self-important Sir Anthony. Even if he'd been available, Rafferty couldn't imagine him being willing to rub shoulders with the celebrating darts players.

  He despatched Llewellyn to the nick to get more copies made of the photo-fit with orders, when he got them, to go to Dr. Melville-Briggs's London consulting-rooms to interview the staff there. Surely, if anyone had occasionally stayed late, they might have seen this Miranda? If Mrs. Devine's mind had really been as clear about the identification as it had seemed and they were one and the same girl.

  If Rafferty could locate this Miranda, she might turn out to be a valuable witness. It was surprising that she hadn't already come forward voluntarily; it wasn't as if the case hadn't received enough publicity, as the tabloids had seized on the story like sensation-starved cannibals. It was possible, of course, that she was trying to protect someone and that someone could only be Melville-Briggs. The man seemed to bring out such an instinct in too many women for Rafferty's liking. Perhaps, when Llewellyn returned from London, he would rattle the doctor's cage a little?

  RAFFERTY LOOKED AT his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Damn Llewellyn. It was eleven o’clock; he should be back by now. The Welshman had rung yesterday afternoon to say he would have to spend the night in town. Some of the staff at Sir Anthony's London consulting-rooms had left quite recently and he was having trouble tracking them down. But surely there couldn't be that many people employed in one doctor's rooms?

  Not for the first time in his career, Rafferty cursed his impetuosity. It was rather a pity that he'd given way to the satisfaction of telling Nurse Wright that Smythe hadn't been arrested for murder. She wouldn't have known any different if he'd kept quiet, as Smythe was off duty for a few days and wouldn't have been expected at the hospital in any case.

  The element of surprise might have been useful when he saw Sir Anthony. Still, he mused, it was still possible he didn't know, as he was attending a conference in the midlands and wasn't expected back till lunchtime today.

  Rafferty had agreed that Llewellyn should kill two birds with one stone, as it were, by going to see the Melville-Briggs's son at his business—not that it seemed likely that Timothy, as so graphically described by Gilbert, would be likely to have any doings with a prostitute, leastways, not a female one. They might as well check it out. But if Llewellyn was wasting time chatting about vintage cars at that garage...

  This was the only positive lead they had—slight though it might be,
and Rafferty didn't want to tackle Melville-Briggs till Llewellyn got back, only too aware how easily the supercilious doctor made his hackles rise.

  The frustration only increased his impatience. For, otherwise, their investigations had scored a big fat zero. They had yet to find the murder weapon or Linda Wilks' clothes, and in spite of the press coverage, no-one but Smythe had seen the car parked outside the hospital. Added to that, the house-to-house had yielded nothing in the way of more information, and no-one calling herself Miranda had so far come forward.

  Too late, he realised he should have gone to London himself. It would have been better than hanging around waiting for Llewellyn to dig the dirt—if he was even capable of something so grubby. Though surely, even Llewellyn realised that they needed answers and needed them quickly.

  Pressure was building from every angle – press, public, and hospital staff – especially its leading light. Once Melville-Briggs discovered that Simon Smythe wasn't going to be charged with the crime, he would be sure to make his displeasure felt. He had made it clear enough that he wanted a quick and convenient solution and Rafferty wondered if his only reason was concern about what the bad publicity would do to the hospital and its profits.

  Had the girl in the pub really been this Miranda come down to see him? It seemed possible as, apart from Mrs. Devine, no-one else admitted to knowing the girl before that evening. Not that Melville-Briggs had either, of course—yet.

  Miranda was a loose end and he didn't like loose ends. He consulted his watch again, with the same result as before; its hands seemed to be crawling.

  LLEWELLYN HAD FINALLY returned, but he was minus any good news, which didn't altogether surprise Rafferty. Timothy Melville-Briggs was out of the running—not that he'd ever really been in. And, needless to say, no-one at Sir Anthony's London consulting-rooms had recognised the girl in the photo-fit picture.