Dead Before Morning

by Geraldine Evans

  ***

  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.

  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 that’s a possibility. 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 such 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?'

  Llewellyn nodded. 'He'd have been terrified of discovery. He could have followed her, waited for her to open the hospital's side gate and pushed through after her. He was working on his car. It's quite likely he still had one of the tools in his hand so he would have had a weapon.'

  Rafferty shook his head. 'You're the car buff. Do you know of any mechanic's tools similar to a rake or a fork?' Llewellyn admitted he didn't. 'Even if he had such a tool, I still don't see him doing it,' said Rafferty. 'If the attack had been done in a mindless and frenzied passion, her body would have received blows as well as her face, and it didn't. And another thing,' he continued, well into his stride now. 'If her father were the murderer, surely, he would have removed her fingerprints? After all, he had just discovered she was a prostitute; for all he knew, she had been picked up for soliciting at some time. Do you think a man who could cold-bloodedly remove her face would then be so careless as to risk the possibility of her fingerprints being on record? He'd want to remove all chance of any association between them being traced. He couldn't be sure that Linda hadn't revealed what he'd done to her to one of her girlfriends. He'd want her to disappear; an unidentifiable body would ensure it. "She's moved to London", he'd say to his neighbours when they asked after her.

  'No,' he added slowly, 'I think we have to look elsewhere for our killer. Someone who didn't know about Linda's double life; someone who had no reason to think she had a record; someone who thought we'd discover their identity once we knew the girl's. But we haven't, dammit.' He brought his fist down with a thump on the roof of the car and Llewellyn winced. 'Why?' he demanded. 'Where are we g
oing wrong?'

  Llewellyn didn't answer, but he still looked doubtful when they got in the car. The trouble with his sergeant, thought Rafferty, was that his knowledge of psychology was all text-book, whereas his own was practical. And, whatever Llewellyn might think, he found it hard to believe that a man who relieved his sexual frustrations on his young daughter rather than an adult and possibly demanding mistress would be bold enough to kill.

  Of course, he could be wrong.