RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Page 9

  The black-haired giant glanced round and his broken-toothed mouth curved into a grin. 'Joseph Aloysius! It's yourself, is it?' His eyes twinkled as he clapped him on the back with a heavy hand. 'What's this I hear about you and our Maureen? Your Ma's told me you're sweet on her.'

  Rafferty sighed. Maureen was Pat's eldest daughter, and his second cousin. She was very bright and usually managed to reduce Rafferty to tongue-tied inanities in ten seconds flat, an obstacle to love that his ma seemed happy to ignore in her desperation to see him married again.

  The trouble was that his ma couldn't see beyond the fact that, in a country of increasing non-believers, Maureen was a "good Catholic girl", and likely to encourage the religiously lax Rafferty back to the paths of righteousness. As if that wasn't recommendation enough for his mother, she came from a good breeding family—his own. Hadn't his ma drawn his attention to Maureen's child-bearing hips more than once? Unfortunately, for his ma they seemed to confirm that the match was made in heaven.

  'When's the wedding?' Pat enquired, still grinning. 'Sure an' it'll be useful having a policeman as a son-in-law.'

  Rafferty managed a sickly grin.

  'Don't look so worried, lad. It's only pullin' your leg, I am. My girl knows her worth, her ma's made certain of it. Surely, you know she goes for the intellectual type?'

  Rafferty hadn't, but, as he did his best to stay out of her way, that wasn’t surprising. Still, he made a mental note, just in case this fact should come in useful one day.

  ‘She's on the hunt for a professor, at least,' Pat went on. 'I'll give you ten to one she wouldn't think of throwing herself away on a skinny carrot-top copper, whatever your ma hopes. It's my bet you'll stay on the shelf a while yet, Joseph.'

  Amazingly, Pat had married an educated woman with ambitions, and, after twenty-five years together, they were still happy. It must be the attraction of opposites, mused Rafferty, uneasily reminded of Maureen.

  Pat put his great arm round his shoulders and gave him the same disarming grin that had persuaded the middle class highbrow, Claire Tyler-Jenkins, up the aisle and into his arms. 'Chin up, son. A little disappointment in love is good for a man. Sure and you'll get over it.'

  Since being bowled over by his uncle's determined romancing, Rafferty’s ‘Auntie’ Claire had transferred her ambitions to her children. Rafferty was grateful to have confirmed his conviction that none of those ambitions included marrying one of her daughters to him. But he still suffered a twinge of unease. Because his ma was also a woman of ambition. And Kitty Rafferty had a way of eroding a person's resistance that was positively tidal.

  'Enough of this mournfulness.' Pat punched him playfully on the shoulder with sufficient force to break a bone. 'Come away in the hut and have a bite to eat with the lads.'

  As he sat in the hut, wedged between his Uncle Pat and his son, Sean, Rafferty for the moment forgot his troubles. The atmosphere in the hut was cheerful, the tin mug in his hand held tea, strong, sweet and piping hot and his ma, Llewellyn, The Elmhurst Sanatorium and Dr. Melville-Briggs seemed a million miles away. For the moment, he was content.

  ALTHOUGH THE A11 WAS fairly quiet, it was late afternoon by the time they got back to Melville-Briggs’s sanatorium and their dreary little office.

  'Get hold of Dally,' Rafferty instructed the Welshman. 'Remind him that I'm still waiting for the results of the post-mortem. Anyone would think he had a conveyor-belt of corpses awaiting his attention.'

  Of course, there was no answer from Sam Dally’s end. And as he listened to Llewellyn leave a message Rafferty checked down his lists. 'We'd better get on. We've only one or two more members of staff to go and three more patients. Right, let's have—' He paused, unable to read his own handwriting. 'Nurse White.'

  'Nurse Wright, is, I think you'll find, the young lady's name, Sir,' Llewellyn supplied confidently, secure in the ivory tower of his own perfect script.

  'Whatever,' Rafferty mumbled. 'Let's have her in.'

  Nearly three quarters of an hour later, Rafferty knew he was in no danger of ever forgetting the wretched woman's name. He felt like cursing it and her from Llewellyn's ivory tower.

  Nurse Wright mightn't have been sufficiently academic to have studied for the higher, RMN qualification, Rafferty reflected, but she was smart enough to know on which side her bread was buttered. It had taken him all that time to drag her story out of her and, even then, it came reluctantly. Disgruntled, he wondered if she was hoping for promotion to Melville-Briggs's bed.

  Nurse Wright told them a young woman had handed her a note for Melville-Briggs just as she had arrived at the side gate for duty on the night of the murder. Of course, she hadn't thought to give it to them when Linda Wilks's body had been found the next morning. She'd actually thrown it away. Or so she said.

  She also claimed this young woman had told her she would wait till 11.30 p.m. for Melville-Briggs to contact her on her mobile. But as Nurse Wright claimed it was only when she got no answer to her knock on the door of Melville-Briggs’s hospital flat that night that she realised he was elsewhere, so had thrown the note away.

  Of course, the note had vanished. Rafferty wondered if she'd handed it to Melville-Briggs at the first opportunity and hadn't thrown it in the waste-basket at all. He cursed as he thought of the hours likely to be wasted raking through dustbins. He'd had to take men off the other search teams to look for it. Remembering Nurse Wright's tight white uniform and the fashionably tousled blonde curls under the saucily-positioned cap, he hoped Melville-Briggs would be grateful for her attempted discretion.

  They'd almost certainly lost the element of surprise in questioning Melville-Briggs about the matter. He'd be expecting them to demand an explanation. Well, Rafferty determined, he wasn't going to—at least not yet. Apart from his Boy Scout motto, Rafferty had another one: never do what people expect you to do. It left them unbalanced which was just what he wanted. He'd see Gentleman Jim when he gauged vertigo was ready to tip the doctor over into some useful disclosures, and not before.

  TUESDAY MORNING WAS fresh and bright. The tantalising intimation of spring made Rafferty reluctant to head straight for their grim temporary office. Instead, he lingered in the hospital grounds for a few precious moments of peace. But at a sound behind him, he realised that brief respite was to be denied him.

  'Psst.'

  Rafferty stopped and turned, but there was no-one in sight. He shook his head and told himself he’d be seeing pink elephants next.

  'Psst.'

  There it was again. It seemed to be coming from the trees bordering the perimeter wall and he tried to peer through this newly-leafed bower. 'Who's there?' he called.

  'Shh. Be quiet can't you?' he was asked in a furious whisper. The voice sounded whinily familiar. 'Come over here, for God's sake, before somebody sees you.'

  Rafferty put his hands in his pockets and, after a casual glance around to see if he was being observed, sauntered as nonchalantly as curiosity permitted, towards the trees and the urgent, whispered summons.

  He wasn't altogether surprised to find that it was Gilbert, the gate porter who had found the body, who was indulging in such James Bondian tactics. 'Not got the sack, yet, then?' he enquired dryly, which conversational gambit only earned him a scowl. 'What do you want, Gilbert?'

  'Got something that might interest you, 'spector,' said Gilbert, with a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder. 'I meant to tell you before, like, only it slipped me mind.'

  What dreadful secret could be pummelling Gilbert's flexible conscience? Rafferty had told the little man to consider him as a priest; perhaps he was now to be treated to a confession? He hoped Gilbert didn't realise that full confessional secrecy was not something that he personally had any truck with. 'I'm listening, Gilbert,' he responded, assuming as pious a stance as he could muster. 'Go on.'

  'I wanted to tell you about who I saw in the local pub the night the girl was killed. As I say, I meant to tell you bef—'

  'And who might tha
t be?' Rafferty interrupted.

  'Simple Simon.'

  'Dr. Simon Smythe do you mean?'

  'That's right. Simple Simon. Only he didn't meet a pie man.' Gilbert sniggered at his own wit.

  Rafferty smiled obligingly and waited for him to elaborate.

  'He met a girl. And 'im meant to be on duty, too.' He sniffed, adopting the self-righteous tones of a man who knew his duty and did it, come what may.

  'You're sure it was the night of the murder?'

  'Course I'm sure. He was in the small, private bar; knocking back whisky like it was going out of fashion. He didn't see me as the angle was awkward, but I saw 'im all right. I only caught a glimpse of the girl, though.'

  'This girl—are you saying it was our murder victim, Linda Wilks?'

  'I'm not saying nothin'. I'm just tellin' you what I saw, ain’t I?'

  'But Linda Wilks was a local girl and Elmhurst's a small place. Are you saying you didn't know her?'

  'I wish you'd stop tryin' to put words into me mouth,' Gilbert complained. 'I didn't say I didn't know Linda. I did.' Hastily, in case, Rafferty should think he had murdered her, he added, 'Just to nod to like, when she was 'ere, which wasn't often.

  ‘Anyway, all I'm sayin' is that the girl I saw could 'ave been Linda. But as I only caught a glimpse of the back of 'er 'ead, before the landlord came and served me and blocked me view, I can't swear to it. I can't be sure who she was. But Linda must 'ave been in Elmhurst that night, mustn't she?' he remarked slyly. 'She managed to get 'erself murdered, after all. Bit of a coincidence that, to my way of thinkin'. Mind, I'm not sayin' that Simple Simon done it. That's fer 'im to know and you to find out, ain’t it?’

  Rafferty sighed. Who'd have suspected that Gilbert had such delicate scruples? For some reason, he wanted to drop Simon Smythe in it, but his strange code wouldn't let him make a proper job of it, wouldn't let him say anything definitely helpful to the police.

  'Mind,' Gilbert went on, confidingly. 'If it was Linda Wilks, we all know what 'e was doin' wiv 'er, don't we? Simple Simon rarely 'ad a girlfriend. Not a proper one, like.' He sniggered. 'You might call Linda Wilks more an improper one, mightn't yer?'

  Ignoring the salacious look in Gilbert's eye, Rafferty asked, 'Did they come in together?'

  Gilbert shrugged. 'Don't know. I only noticed them at the last knockin's.'

  'Can you describe this girl?'

  Gilbert screwed up his face, as though to emphasise the difficulty of casting his mind back in time the vast distance of four days. 'Let me see. She had long, dark hair,' he at last revealed. 'Admittedly, Linda Wilks was blonde the last time I saw 'er, but I generally never saw 'er with the same colour 'air twice in a row, so that don't mean nothin'. Bit on the skinny side. Meself, I prefer a woman with a bit more meat on her bones.'

  'Never mind about that. Get on with it.'

  Gilbert tutted. 'I'm tellin' you ain’t I? She was about nineteen, twenty, I'd say. Quite tall, about 5' 7".'

  Gilbert seemed to be having few problems with his memory now, Rafferty noted. He suspected that the real reason he was the recipient of Gilbert's news was that the porter had tried to get Simon Smythe to cough up in return for keeping quiet and had been refused.

  Smythe’s hitherto unsuspected bravery surprised him. Unless it was that the poor sap just hadn't had the wherewithal to buy the porter's silence.

  Gilbert continued in an even more confiding tone. 'I'm not normally a man to snitch, like, but if 'e done it, then it's my duty to 'elp the police ain’t it? 'Ere,' he looked sideways at Rafferty. 'Isn't there usually some sort of reward offered for 'elping the police? Not that I'm doing it for the money,' he added hastily, as he saw Rafferty's frown. 'But if it's my entitlement, I might as well 'ave it.'

  Rafferty’s lips tightened. Gilbert struck him as the sort of man who would milk a system for every penny of his entitlements, whether he deserved them or not.

  Not without a certain amount of satisfaction, he said, 'I'm sorry, Gilbert, but you must have been watching too many cops and robbers’ programmes on the telly. You're thinking of insurance companies. They're the ones with money to burn on financial rewards for informants, not the poor copper.'

  Gilbert looked as if he regretted his confidences now the chance of any profit was gone. Rafferty decided it was time to get tough with him. 'I must say, I'm surprised it's taken you so long to "remember" what you saw. What's the matter, Gilbert? Did Smythe tell you to go to hell?'

  Gilbert stiffened, the image of injured innocence. Unfortunately for him, it was at odds with the shifty look in his eyes. 'I don't know what you're talkin' about,' he retorted belligerently. 'I'm only tryin' to do me duty. But if all you're goin' to do is make nasty 'sinuations, I won't bother.' He clamped his mouth tight shut and made to go. But Rafferty grabbed his arm and held it tightly.

  'Not so fast, Mr Gilbert. If there's any more I want to hear it.' He smiled grimly into the man's sharp, weasel features. 'After all, you want to do your duty, don't you?'

  Evidently Gilbert thought better of playing hard to get. Sticking out his bottom lip, he remarked plaintively, 'I was just about to tell you, wasn't I? You don't give a man a chance.'

  'So, I'm giving you the chance now. Take it.'

  'All right, all right, keep yer 'air on,' Gilbert complained. 'Though I don't know what else you expect me to say. You coppers are always putting words into a man's mouth. I don't want you to think—’

  'Never mind what I think. Did they leave together?'

  'No,' Gilbert reluctantly admitted. 'They seemed to have a bit of a row and she just upped and left. He hung about for a minute, then he followed her out. He could 'ave caught up with 'er easily enough, what wiv those great long, gangling legs of 'is.' He eyed Rafferty speculatively. 'Gonna arrest him are yer?'

  Rafferty tapped the side of his nose with his finger. 'That's for me to know and you to discover, Gilbert.'

  The porter scowled and Rafferty eyed him thoughtfully. It seemed that Gilbert had noticed rather more than a second's glimpse would reveal. It didn't surprise him. Smythe was supposed to be on duty at the hospital and Rafferty could imagine the porter's shifty eyes out on stalks when he saw Smythe in the pub. Gilbert’s grubby little mind must have worked overtime, calculating the nice little profit he’d receive for keeping his mouth shut. It was surely only a base spite that had made him tell Rafferty what he'd seen when any blackmailing demand he’d attempted had been refused.

  He eyed the man with distaste. 'Would you recognise her again?'

  'Doubt it. I told yer, I only saw—'

  'The back of her head. I know. I just wondered if any more of your memory had inexplicably returned.'

  'I'd tell yer if it did, 'spector,' Gilbert protested, with a show of hurt pride. 'You needn't sound as if I forgot deliberately. I reckon it must 'ave been the shock that made me forget. Yes,' he added firmly, glad to have found a believable excuse for his memory lapse. 'That'll be it. Shock can do funny things to a man's memory, you know. You learn things like that workin' in an 'ospital.'

  'Really? Well, we must just be glad that the shock's started to wear off, then, mustn't we?'

  Gilbert scowled and his face fell into disconsolate folds. Rafferty ignored him and concentrated on the implications of what the porter had just told him.

  If Linda Wilks had been with Smythe just before she was murdered, it looked as if Melville-Briggs would be off the hook, which was rather a pity. He'd been looking forward to tackling him about the disappearing note. He still might do it, though, he promised himself, as a small reward for putting up with the doctor's increasing harassment. He seemed to expect Rafferty to debrief him on their results at the end of every day and he was getting fed up with it. If it wasn't for the fact that he was a buddy of the Chief Constable...

  Rafferty found a pleasant smile for his informant. 'Thank you, Gilbert. You've been most helpful. I expect the Chief Constable will send you a letter of thanks. You could frame it.'

  Gilbert s
norted. 'Likely story. Seems to me all the likes of me get from the police is nasty 'sinuations.'

  'I wonder why?' Rafferty walked away, leaving a disgruntled Gilbert muttering obscenities behind him.

  The pub was busy with its lunch-time crowd when Rafferty and Llewellyn walked in. Rafferty caught the landlord's eye and beckoned him over.

  'Police. Sorry to trouble you again. We have information that Linda Wilks might have been in here last Friday night. The night she was murdered.’

  The landlord frowned. 'Who told you that?'

  Rafferty's confidence began to evaporate a little. 'Never mind. Just think about it. She was a local girl. You must have known her by sight. Surely you remember seeing her that Friday?'

  'I can't say as I do,' he replied. 'It was a very busy night. Darts final and the bar was packed with supporters from The Horse and Groom in the village. Run off my feet I was.'

  'She was in the private bar, not the public.'

  'No. she wasn't,' the landlord contradicted. 'She might have been in the public bar, but, as I said, there was such a crush, it would have been easy to miss her.'

  'Perhaps some of your regulars could help?' Llewellyn suggested.

  Unfortunately, it appeared that the regulars had celebrated themselves senseless after their team had won the darts final, neither their evidence nor their memories could be relied upon.

  'Sorry, Inspector.' The landlord was apologetic. 'It was a bit of a wild night, I'm afraid. We were all a bit sozzled. It's a good ten years since we won the trophy.' He glanced up at the silver cup proudly displayed above the bar.

  Rafferty sighed. 'This other girl—the one who was in the pub, the one in the private bar? Perhaps you can describe her?'

  He nodded. 'Reminded me of the sister-in-law a bit. She was a real classy looking piece, and she had long dark hair, whereas Linda tended to fade into the wallpaper a bit. Now, let me see.' He glanced again at the darts trophy as though seeking inspiration. 'She was about twenty or thereabouts, I reckon. Stylishly dressed. Nicely-spoken, too. She stood out, see? Not our usual sort of customer at all.'