RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Page 16

  Rafferty ignored the hint and remained seated.

  After a wait of thirty seconds, Sir Anthony raised his head and fixed him with a haughty glare. ‘Was there something else, Rafferty?'

  The way Sir Anthony ignored his rank and called him by his surname riled Rafferty, it had done all along. He might have been the butler, dismissed once he'd brought the after dinner port. The quick temper of his Irish forbears was aroused and demanded some retaliation. He tried to keep his voice as bland as Melville-Briggs's better efforts, but not altogether certain he was successful, he ploughed on, 'I'm sorry you should be so antagonistic, Sir. I would have thought a man in your position would recognise his duty to help the police.'

  Melville-Briggs fixed Rafferty with a chilling stare, and, for a few brief moments, the real man behind the cultivated urbanity showed through. 'A man in my position recognises only one thing, Rafferty—the importance of staying there.’

  Rafferty blinked, and it was as if he’d imagined the real Sir Anthony, as pomposity return.

  ‘I find it offensive to have my good name besmirched, my professional colleagues questioned about my movements; it invites speculation and gossip of the crudest kind.'

  'Most people would find murder more offensive, Sir,' he said reflectively, as he remembered the victim’s bludgeoned face and her family’s distress and destroyed respectability. 'Or don't you think a common tart has a right to justice from the law?'

  Melville-Briggs waved the suggestion aside.

  'We can't be sure that another young woman won't meet the same fate.' Sickened by this dismissal of the poor young victim and her grieving family, Rafferty decided to play his wild card. He took the photo-fit picture of the girl in the pub from his pocket, threw it on the desk. 'Miranda, for instance.'

  Perhaps he’d only imagined Melville-Briggs's loss of colour. His adversary recovered quickly and called his bluff.

  'Miranda?' he questioned softly. 'Miranda who?'

  Rafferty cursed under his breath. But he was determined not to let on that he didn't know.

  The doctor’s bold bluff-calling might just be a fishing expedition to test the extent of his knowledge, Rafferty knew. It would be a mistake to let on that both his information and his semi-senile informant were far from reliable.

  Rafferty took out his own Olivier skills and dusted them off. 'Let me get this straight, Sir—just for the record, you understand. Are you saying that you know nobody who bears any resemblance to this girl? Nobody by the name of Miranda?' He allowed a note of faint surprise to enter his voice as he tried to imply that he had information to the contrary. 'It's not a very common name.'

  'I cannot recollect anyone of that name who resembles this girl,' the doctor replied briskly. 'Perhaps you would like me to make a few inquiries amongst my colleagues?'

  'That won't be necessary, thank you, Sir. Our own inquiries are proceeding very satisfactorily. Very satisfactorily indeed,' Rafferty repeated, with an air as confident as only an Olivier-manqué could make it.

  This time even Melville-Briggs couldn’t entirely conceal his dismay.

  Rafferty assumed an even more omniscient air and decided he could risk exaggerating the extent of their knowledge. 'We have reason to believe this Miranda had connections with your London clinic, Sir.

  ‘We also have reason to believe she was in this area on the night of the murder and expected to meet someone. Odd that, because, so far, we haven't found anyone locally who admits to knowing her. Perhaps she had intended meeting the dead girl? Or perhaps not. But it's strange that she hasn't chosen to come forward.' He let his eyes meet the doctor's. 'I imagine Nurse Wright told you about the young woman who gave her a note for you?'

  'I believe she did mention something of the sort,' Melville-Briggs blustered, clearly struggling for an appearance of untroubled calm. 'But as she threw the note away, I've no idea who the girl might have been.’ He adopted the expansive, man of the world air again, and, with a throwaway gesture, said, blandly, ‘I have a large circle of friends and acquaintances, Rafferty, a lot of them young women, as your investigations have no doubt revealed. The girl could have been any one of them.'

  'Don't you think it strange that she hasn't come forward?'

  The doctor shrugged. 'That's easily explained. I move in very successful, well-travelled circles, Rafferty.' Melville-Briggs exuded sounded smugness out of his very pores.

  Rafferty felt class-hatred of the rich, the powerful, the effortlessly well-connected, rise from his own pores. With difficulty, he subdued the feeling as Melville-Briggs continued.

  'This woman could have been out of the country at the time news of the murder broke. It's possible that she isn't even aware that you're looking for her, yet you seem determined to make it look suspicious and—'

  'It's just that I wondered why she didn't telephone first if she wanted to see you, Sir. Instead of turning up out of the blue.'

  'You know what impulsive creatures women can be, Rafferty. They don't always stop to think.'

  Rafferty smiled. In a men-together sort of way. As, from the side of his vision, he took in Llewellyn’s firmly-Liberal affront. Just as well the doctor hadn’t met any of his female relatives. Trojans wasn’t in it...

  Melville-Briggs's, sexist response irritated him—wouldn’t Llewellyn be pleased about that? But with a ma who commanded respect and three bolshie sisters, Rafferty had learned the unwisdom of besmirching the female of the species; like the Black Widow spider, they had a tendency to bite. Still, he couldn't resist a little sexual insinuation in his response. 'If your friend is abroad, I expect she'll turn up shortly. Then we'll find out the truth, won't we, Sir?'

  Melville-Briggs turned an interesting assortment of colours; several of which might be termed eau de f***ing temper.

  Rafferty leaned forward. 'Now. Just for the record, you understand?’ In a casual aside, he asked: ‘You’re taking this down, Llewellyn?’ As if his superior Welsh sergeant would do anything else; the man was an automaton. He didn’t look for or acknowledge Llewellyn’s response, but ploughed on. ‘Are you quite sure you knew neither the murdered girl, Linda Wilks, nor this Miranda?'

  After a telling, momentary hesitation, Melville-Briggs stated firmly, ‘Quite sure.' With a scowl, he declared, ‘Now, I have work to do—if there's nothing else?'

  Sir Anthony's voice was tightly controlled and Rafferty felt disappointment seep into his soul. Now what? He hadn't succeeded in rattling him. He'd played his wild card and had nothing left to throw.

  But even if he had nothing in his hand but duds, he could still finish the game with dignity. 'Not at the moment, Sir,' he conceded. 'But when we have, we'll know where to find you.'

  Balked of victory, Rafferty perked up as he remembered that even the most cast-iron alibis had been known to be broken: and by him. Still, he would give a great deal to see the effortlessly-superior Melville-Briggs humbled.

  But, he reminded himself; salvaging his bruised pride wasn’t the object of the exercise; that was to find out who had murdered that poor, carelessly-loved, young woman, Melanie Wilks. The young girl with her dreams of film stardom shattered.

  After he had sketched an ironic bow at the pointedly bent head, Rafferty and Llewellyn took their leave.

  'Well?' Rafferty, by now weary of the Olivier-pose and its unnatural demands, burst out when they were safely the other side of the bear’s den. 'You were watching him. What do you think?'

  'What do I think?’ I think you’re courting trouble. Sir. And the Superintendent’s displeasure.’

  ‘That’s a given. What else, man? Nitty-gritty time.’

  ‘His alibi seems sound enough, Sir.' Llewellyn pursed his lips thoughtfully and directed a reproving glance at Rafferty. 'But we already knew that, that's why I don't understand why you pushed him so hard. He doesn't even seem to have any motive. Or at least, none that we've been able to discern.

  ‘Besides, he doesn't seem to me to be a man who'd soil his own hands with murder. He'd more lik
ely pay someone else to do his dirty work for him.'

  Llewellyn's eyes darkened and his expression became enigmatic. 'I know you don't like him, Sir, but rest assured, whatever his sins, he'll pay for them eventually.’ He paused, went into quotation mode. Rafferty groaned. ‘"Every guilty person is his own hangman,” according to Seneca.'

  'Well, that's a comforting thought. Would improve our clear up rate no end.’

  Although he was impressed by his sergeant's summing-up of Melville-Briggs, he wasn't in the mood to compliment him; Llewellyn so often seemed to act as though he was the superior officer that it stuck in his craw.

  It didn’t help that his own behaviour during the interview had been a bit over the top; which was something he could be sure Llewellyn would remind him about in his own sweet time.

  And, if old Seneca was right, if he recalled one of Llewellyn’s previous wiseacre quotations correctly: retribution was sure to follow. 'It's a pity your mate, Seneca, won't be about with his reassuring platitudes when matey-boy in there starts complaining to the brass about me,' he observed sourly.

  Sensibly, Llewellyn made no attempt at commiseration.

  What would be the point? Rafferty mused dispiritedly, when they both knew that Superintendent Bradley, a gruff, no-nonsense, Professional-Yorkshireman with gimlet eyes firmly fixed on that greasy ladder, hadn't got where he was by treating his junior officers with kid-gloves when they threatened his comfortable niche.

  Rafferty concluded that not only could he soon expect a flea in his ear, but that all the flea's friends and relations would come along for the ride. And, although he had the nous to keep the rest of his opinions to himself, it was obvious that Llewellyn would think it served him right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE OLD MAN WANTED results, did he? Rafferty grumbled to himself as he entered his office and slammed the door. It would serve Superintendent bloody Bradley right if he got ones he least wanted, gift wrapped.

  As he had anticipated, retribution had been very swift. And he didn't need two guesses as to who had stirred the shit. Even though he'd been warned off treading too heavily on those particular corns, he, for one, would enjoy tying Melville-Briggs up in presentation red ribbon, even if he got reduced to the rank of sergeant for his trouble.

  Disgruntled that Llewellyn seemed to number a knack for disappearing when the flak was flying among his other talents, Rafferty slumped dejectedly in his chair. The trouble was he had too many possible suspects. Sidney Wilks, for instance, was turning out to be a very interesting possibility, as he'd tried to explain to the superintendent, in an attempt to halt Bradley's Vesuvius-like eruption. It didn't help that Wilks had been the Welsh Wizard's preferred choice, rather than his own.

  According to Tina, the absent Streatham flatmate, Sidney Wilks wasn't the solid citizen his privet hedge proclaimed, but had used his respectability as a shield for something far from seemly. Linda had confided that her father had regularly abused her sexually as a child. Was it true, though? And if so, had Daphne Wilks known?

  Rafferty's nose twitched, once—an infallible guide and he nodded slowly. Wilks was capable of such an act. And Daphne Wilks? Wasn't it true that those who denied knowledge of such a dreadful act denied it most strongly to themselves?

  He viewed the coming interview with distaste, but consoled himself with the unkind thought that Llewellyn would relish it even less than he did.

  THE NETS WERE TWITCHED discreetly aside and as quickly twitched back before Mrs. Wilks opened the door, flattening herself against the wall out of sight and as soon as Rafferty and Llewellyn were safely gathered into the hall, she slid the door shut again. The whole operation had taken only moments.

  'Is your husband home, Mrs. Wilks?' Rafferty asked as she let them through to the flowery claustrophobia of the living room. He knew very well that he wasn't. It had seemed sensible to question his wife without risking any promptings from Wilks. However, hoping to get under her guard, he kept up the pretence.

  'Sidney?' Her eyes were wary as they darted from Rafferty to Llewellyn and back again. 'Why do you want to see Sidney?' she demanded. 'What's he supposed to have done?'

  'I didn't say he'd done anything. I just want to speak to him. Is he here?' She shook her head. When do you expect him?'

  She shrugged. 'He didn't say when he'd be back. He's gone up to the Hall, you know, the home of that doctor who owns the hospital where my girl was killed.'

  Rafferty frowned. 'Gone up to the Hall? Why's that?'

  'He does the occasional bit of work up there. Can turn his hand to most things, my Sid.'

  'I see.' He gave her a careful scrutiny. 'Close were they, your husband and Linda?' he asked quietly.

  Daphne Wilks stiffened. 'I don't know what you mean.'

  Rafferty met Llewellyn's bleak gaze at the defensive answer. 'Look Mrs. Wilks, there's no nice way to put this, but was your husband unnaturally close to your daughter?'

  Mrs. Wilks took a step back. 'Who told you that?' she demanded. 'It's a wicked lie,' she asserted. 'A wicked lie.'

  Rafferty took her arm. 'Come and sit down. Getting yourself all upset won't help matters. Suppose you tell us all about it?'

  After dabbing at her eyes with a delicate lace-edged handkerchief, Mrs. Wilks proceeded to screw it into a ball. She stared down at her lap and began to speak, forcing out the words as though each one might choke her. 'He was always cuddling her, as fathers do, there was nothing in it, but Linda got it into her head he'd done something wrong and told me he—did things to her.' She raised her head and stared at them defiantly. 'I gave her a smack for telling such wicked lies and I heard no more about it after that.'

  'You didn't believe her, then?' asked Llewellyn gravely.

  'Of course not!' In spite of her denial, her eyes avoided the Welshman's. 'Little madam was always making up tales. Liked to imagine herself important, you know how kids do?' She gave a sniff. 'As if my Sidney would do such a thing. He's a respectable man and she's shamed him, shamed us both.'

  Rafferty sighed. 'Did Linda accuse her father of doing these things at any particular time?'

  Daphne Wilks looked defiantly at him. 'Crafty she was. Told me he went up to her room when I was at work. I used to help out at that hospital part-time in the evenings.'

  Interesting, thought Rafferty. Here was yet another hospital connection. 'So your husband and Linda would often be alone here?' he questioned.

  Unable to disagree, she burst out, 'But he didn't do anything, I've told you. She made it up to get back at him.'

  'Why should she want to get back at him?' asked Llewellyn.

  Daphne Wilks sighed and began to pull at the lace of her hankie. 'He was always a bit strict as a father, my Sidney. “Spare the rod and spoil the child”, he used to say. Linda was a naughty child and used to get spanked regularly.'

  'Did you never punish her yourself?' Llewellyn questioned. 'Surely, it's more usual for a mother to punish a daughter?'

  'Oh no, Sidney always said that disciplining Linda was his duty. Said I'd be too soft. He used to take her into the dining-room and shut the door. He told me he didn't want to upset me. Mind, the spankings worked. She'd always be good for a long spell afterwards.'

  'Did you never think she might be telling the truth about what her father did to her?' Rafferty demanded, unable to conceal his repugnance at her giving the nod, as it were, to her own daughter's abuse.

  Her face flushed an ugly red as she briefly met his gaze, mumbling, 'No, of course not,' before looking away again.

  'I see.' It was hopeless; she would never admit the truth, not even to herself. Rafferty stood up, now wanting only to get out and sensing that Llewellyn felt the same way. But, before they went, he had one or two more questions for her. 'About that phone call on the night your daughter died.'

  Daphne Wilks looked wary again. 'What about it?'

  'Who answered the phone?'

  'My husband.'

  'Did he say he recognised the voice? Did he say
if they'd rung before?'

  The unexpected questions seemed to bewilder her. 'Why should he? We were both far too upset to think about such a thing.' She frowned suddenly. 'Do you think the caller might be the one who killed her?'

  The possibility seemed to cheer her immensely, Rafferty noticed. Perhaps she had also suspected her husband of killing Linda?

  'Do you know, it never occurred to me before, but I suppose it might be right. Why didn't I consider it before? Such wickedness to ring up and invite her to her own murder.' Mrs. Wilks looked at them indignantly, as if they'd been the ones to issue the invitation. 'Because that's what he did, you know. I remember; it rang three times before Sidney answered it. Just like the three cock crows in the bible.' With a stunned look, she stared at them. 'It was a bad omen.'

  At least, it seemed to confirm that there had been a phone call. Rafferty didn't think her that accomplished an actress, no matter how much her husband might have primed her. Surprisingly, she seemed to want to talk now she'd satisfied herself that her husband was in the clear and it was a good ten minutes later before they managed to make it to the door of the living room.

  'Perhaps you'll tell your husband we called?' Rafferty suggested. 'And that we'll be back.' She gave them another defiant look, as though to challenge them to make her change her story. 'We'll see ourselves out.'

  Once outside, Rafferty rubbed a hand over his face as though to wipe off the feeling of disgust. 'She knew what her husband was doing all right. Linda wasn't lying. Poor little bitch. Who could she turn to if her own mother wouldn't believe her? I wonder if she brought it up during their row. Accused her father of pushing her into prostitution? It's possible. Perhaps she told him she wasn't going to keep quiet about what he’d done to her any longer?'