RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  Still, Rafferty consoled himself, that didn't necessarily prove anything. Perhaps she and the aging Lothario had been up to after hours' naughties—hadn't Mrs. Devine said the girl had always had a very late appointment, after the staff had gone home? After all, it was unlikely that the doctor would confine his amorous activities to the countryside. Although Rafferty was disappointed not to have something more on Melville-Briggs, he was still determined to tackle him. Perhaps he would yet be able to bluff him into some revelation.

  Sir Anthony hadn't yet returned, though he was expected imminently, but at least Mrs. Galvin had made them tea while they waited. Picking up his cup, Rafferty asked, 'Have you worked for Dr. Melville-Briggs long?'

  'Three years.'

  He gave a low whistle. 'Really? That long? You surprise me.'

  She looked steadily at him. 'I fail to see why.'

  'Human nature intrigues me,' he explained. 'What people do, why they do it. I find they often have the oddest reasons for their actions.'

  'I'm afraid you'll discover nothing to intrigue you about mine,' she replied. 'I work here because I need the money.'

  'Surely you could get much better paying work in London?'

  She shrugged. 'Perhaps. But I have other considerations to bear in mind, like suitable housing. My husband is an invalid, Inspector. He was paralysed over two years ago. I doubt if we could afford to equip another house with the necessary aids.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that. How did it happen?'

  'A car accident,' she replied briefly.

  It was obvious that she didn't want to talk about it. Like Melville-Briggs's unfortunate junior doctor Simon Smythe, here was another member of his staff unlikely to find another suitable job. She was trapped as surely as Smythe and would have little choice but to continue to hold onto her position here. No doubt Melville-Briggs made full use of his knowledge of her circumstances.

  She'd already made her statement; not that it amounted to much beyond saying she was at home all evening with her husband on the night of the murder. It hadn't been corroborated, yet; in her case, he had thought it would be just a formality, but when he mentioned the necessity of this corroboration, her reaction surprised him.

  'Surely that's not necessary?' Her voice suddenly sharp, she added, 'you don't imagine that I—that a woman would attack a young girl in such a brutal fashion, Inspector? Especially as the papers said she was a prostitute.'

  In his experience, anything was possible and Sam Dally had said a woman could have murdered the girl. Mary Galvin came over as a woman of strong passions behind that calm exterior—certainly capable of killing if the motive was strong enough.

  Mary Galvin might be slim, but the skinniest murderers generally managed to find the required strength if the motive was strong enough. And if she had been one of Melville-Briggs's mistresses, sexual jealousy would be as good a motive as any and better than most.

  The women in this case struck Rafferty as particularly strong-minded, and wasn't it true that the gentler sex were often less squeamish than mere males when it came to disposing of a barrier to happiness?

  'We have to check out everyone who had a key to that side gate,' he told her. 'It doesn't mean that we suspect you of anything. Your husband—'

  'I've already told you that he's a cripple, Inspector,' she retorted even more sharply than before. 'The only time he leaves his wheel-chair is to go to bed. Surely you don't suspect that he murdered the girl?'

  Her agitation interested him. He was about to question her further when the intercom on the desk buzzed.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ he murmured. But Mary Galvin's reaction to his questions was turning out to be something of a mystery and he wouldn't be happy till he got to the bottom of it.

  Her hand pressed the appropriate button and Anthony Melville-Briggs's smooth tones caressed their ears. 'I'm back. Any messages?'

  After passing on the messages, Mary Galvin added, 'The police are here, Sir Anthony. Inspector Rafferty and Sergeant Llewellyn. They'd like to see you.'

  'Of course. I've been expecting them.'

  The smug voice practically purred in Rafferty’s ears; an anticipatory tingle tickled his spine. It seemed he might have been lucky and old Tony hadn't heard the latest on Smythe. The beginnings of a grin added to what Llewellyn would probably call a triumvirate of pleasure. Four syllables. God, he was getting good at this wordy lark. He’d be spouting Latin next. Or perhaps that was Latin. Just don’t ask Llewellyn, Rafferty reminded himself. Or you’ll get a lecture. In Greek, probably.

  'Show them in at once,’ Sir Anthony commanded. ‘We mustn’t keep such diligent officers waiting.’

  ‘Seconded,’ Rafferty muttered. ‘Lead me to the Pleasure Dome.’

  ‘And Mrs Galvin, I don't want to be disturbed, so keep back all calls. Oh, and, I'm sure they'd like some coffee.'

  Got that wrong.

  Chapter Twelve

  SIR ANTHONY POSITIVELY beamed as they entered his office. 'I understand you've got some good news for me? I must say, I never thought...'

  Diplomatically, he bit off whatever he had been going to say, but Rafferty guessed it would have been less than complimentary.

  'Ahem, do sit down. 'It's a great relief that you've discovered the culprit,' Melville-Briggs went on. 'And so promptly. It's obvious that Smythe was the man, of course. He's just the type to need to turn to prostitutes for sexual gratification.'

  Melville-Briggs appeared to have forgotten his slanderous accusations against Nathanial Whittaker, Rafferty noted with amusement, as the doctor continued smoothly. 'And although I appreciate your courtesy in keeping me personally informed, surely you should be at the station, interrogating him?'

  Rafferty was grateful that his impetuosity hadn't met its deserved reward and he intended to get maximum enjoyment out of the situation. It wasn't often he got the chance to be one up on someone like Melville-Briggs. He allowed his face to register surprise and his voice to assume a lightly ironic, teasing tone, out of sheer devilment. 'I'm afraid you're a bit out of date, Sir Anthony. I assumed you'd have heard.'

  'Heard?' Sir Anthony's face stopped beaming. 'Heard what? What are you talking about, Rafferty?'

  'I didn’t arrest Dr Smythe. He was merely helping us with our inquiries. I imagine he'll be at home. If you want him.'

  'What?' Sir Anthony leaned forward over the desk as though he was about to psychoanalyse him. 'Have you gone mad?'

  'I don't believe so, Sir. Smythe was just unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all. He hasn't murdered anyone.'

  Melville-Briggs made to open his mouth again, but the telephone buzzed. He snatched at it and practically snarled, 'I thought I told you not to put through any calls? Do I have to—?'

  Mrs. Galvin must have said something soothing; something that jangled of cash, because instead of continuing to carp, he just said peremptorily, 'Oh, very well. Put her through.'

  To Rafferty's amusement, when Sir Anthony next spoke there was no trace of irritation in his voice. It was apparent that when it came to well-heeled clients, he could be quite charming; a veritable fount of patience and solicitude.

  'My dear Lady Harriet, how very nice to hear from you again. How was your holiday? Good. Good. So nice at this time of year, I’ve always found. No, no. Nothing at all to be alarmed about, I assure you. We all know how the press exaggerate... No, no, just some foolish girl who managed to get into the grounds. Probably turn out to be a lovers' tiff, nothing more. In fact—' He broke off and it was apparent that he'd been interrupted once again. It seemed that Lady Harriet was rather more astute than Melville-Briggs had thought. She seemed to find his explanation less than satisfactory, for he was forced to go on in this placatory vein for several minutes.

  Although Rafferty still listened to the one-sided conversation, getting more of a kick out of it than his thankfully sleeping conscience would normally allow, he let his gaze wander round the room.

  Not for Melville-B
riggs the interview conducted in a drab and comfortless basement. Oh, how the other half live... The good doctor had decreed early in the case that if they wanted to see him, they would have to come to him. Rafferty concluded that he’d been so insistent because he had believed the splendour of his own office would the better impress on him that he was a man of wealth and influence—something Rafferty would rather forget. It was strange that a practising trick cyclist didn't realise that, to Rafferty, the opulent office acted more as a red rag to a bull than a reminder that respectful deference was the required response.

  The spacious, first-floor room had presumably once been the drawing-room. It still had the original encircling cornice and panelled wainscot. The polished wood floor was covered with an Oriental carpet in rich golds and blues and, either side of the marble fireplace, two matching mahogany bookcases, the height of the ceiling, contained expensively-bound medical text-books. Enormous gilt mirrors decorated the walls and, whichever way he turned, Rafferty could see himself and Llewellyn reflected, over and over again. His own bemused expression so disconcerted him that he swivelled his head away, but not before noting that his thick auburn hair was badly in need of a cut.

  Rafferty was put out to discover that, beside his well-groomed sergeant, he looked a bit of a scruff. The discovery disconcerted him even more and, determinedly, he concentrated his gaze on the window-facing wall behind the doctor's desk.

  A veritable photographer's gallery of framed prints was on display there and he let his eyes take in the coloured photographs of the doctor with various members of the royal family, and others, where he posed with white-coated and presumably distinguished medical men. Perhaps, Rafferty reflected, he should be grateful Sir Anthony didn't have a large, colour picture of himself posed with the Chief Constable. Now that would have had good intimidation value.

  An even more impressive array of medical qualifications was grouped together in the centre of the display. Rafferty squinted as he tried, without success, to read them. Surely they couldn't all be proper qualifications? Perhaps Melville-Briggs had bought some of the certificates as he'd tried to buy him? You could buy anything on the internet. Or so Llewellyn, his personal geek, had often told him. A man like Sir Anthony thought the entire world was for sale. Sadly, much of it was.

  As he thought of Simon Smythe's pitiful collection of honours and memories, Rafferty felt a gush of fellow feeling. Unlike Sir Anthony, the poor sap couldn't even buy himself a much-needed bottle of whisky without the world tumbling about his ears.

  He brought his full attention back to Sir Anthony's dulcet tones. By the time he had finished, even Rafferty was beginning to believe that the facts of the murder were just an exaggeration on the part of the gutter press.

  However, this happy illusion lasted no longer than it took Melville-Briggs to wish the lady a pleasant adieu and place the phone on the desk with an exaggerated care; almost as if it was the lady herself. Or, more likely, her wallet. Reality then again took over from the delights of make-believe.

  The telephone conversation had given Sir Anthony time to get his disappointment in perspective. He sat back in his chair, drummed his fingers testily on his desk.

  The desk didn't suit the elegant proportions and restrained plaster-work of the room, Rafferty noted, unreasonably pleased that, beneath the surface sophistication, Sir Anthony's tastes reflected his Brummie origins.

  Like Melville-Briggs, the desk was large and showy; seven feet long, its top was covered with maroon leather and around the edge, the mahogany was inlaid with a flamboyant quantity of what looked like gold-leaf. It was almost as though Melville-Briggs had determined to thrust his own forceful personality on the room.

  Behind the desk, Sir Anthony sat in a high-backed, throne-like chair, from which he could look down on lesser mortals. Perhaps his more anxious patients approved of such an arrangement; they probably found such dominance comforting.

  Rafferty didn’t; it merely made him keener to prick the ego on the throne. He set about it with a restrained gusto. 'Of course,' he remarked, 'in view of the news about Smythe, you'll understand that it's necessary to interview everyone again? Perhaps, Sir Anthony, you'd like to enlarge on your previous statement about your movements on the night of the murder?'

  'Enlarge on my previous statement?' Melville-Briggs's glowered. 'What game are you playing, Rafferty? You've let a perfectly good suspect go. Now you're plunging round desperately trying to find a replacement. Well, I'm not it. And if you try to make me so, I'll create the biggest stink on either side of The Atlantic since Watergate.'

  'Surely that wouldn't do the reputation of the hospital any good, Sir?' Rafferty remarked in a pseudo-comforting voice. 'Besides, it's hardly necessary. Can't we be civilised about this?'

  'It's not very civilised to come in here and accuse—'

  'No-one's accusing you of anything, Sir,' Llewellyn put in politely, with a pained glance at Rafferty. 'It's just that—'

  Melville-Briggs ignored him and concentrated on the organ grinder.

  Due deference and recognition at last, was Rafferty’s cynical thought. Bit late for that, old son.

  'I didn't even know the girl.'

  'That may be so, Sir,' Rafferty remarked, glad he'd managed to disturb Sir Anthony's equilibrium, 'but without investigating, we can hardly be sure of that. After all, it's common knowledge that you have many women friends. The victim, as far as we know, could have been one of them. You must see,' he added with an air of sweet reason, 'the necessity of investigating the possibility.'

  'As I was at The George all night, it would appear the possibility is more of an impossibility,' he barked. 'I have a fool-proof alibi, Rafferty. You won't succeed in breaking it.'

  'I expect you're right. But even fool-proof alibis have to be closely scrutinised, Sir.'

  Melville-Briggs laid his hands flat on the desk and leant forward. 'If you doubt my word' – by the tone of voice, it was apparent that he thought the idea absurd – 'you can ask your own police surgeon, Dally. He was there.'

  'I see. He was with you the entire night, was he, Sir?' Rafferty didn't bother to edit out the sarcasm, even though he knew it was unwise; if Melville-Briggs's alibi turned out to be as sound as he claimed, he would pay for it. We must find our pleasures where we may, he thought, as he crossed his fingers under the desk’s concealing magnificence.

  'No, of course he wasn't with me all night.' Melville-Briggs's face was slowly becoming a marvellous match for the maroon leather of the desk. 'I don't like your tone, Rafferty. I don't like it at all.'

  Rafferty didn't much care for his either. The man was too confident; a confidence that sprang either from innocence...or the knowledge that he had bought and paid for an alibi that couldn't be faulted. But surely even Melville-Briggs couldn't bribe half the medical men who had been at The George that night?

  'I'm sorry about that, Sir,' he replied quietly. 'But if, as you say, you weren't with your wife, Dr. Dally or anyone else all night, it would seem that your alibi isn't quite as strong as you implied. In a crowded room even a man of your eminence,' he gave the word an ironic stress, 'wouldn't be missed for half an hour or so.'

  The thin lips settled into a sneer. 'Nathanial Whittaker would be far less likely to be missed than myself.' Sir Anthony's tone was icy as he returned to his earlier and too hastily-abandoned suspicions. 'As you've decided to swallow whatever lies Smythe's told you, you'd be better advised to ask him to account for his movements that night. Especially as he left early.'

  'We already have, Sir.'

  'And?'

  'As with all the rest of the possible suspects, we're continuing our enquiries. Mr Whittaker will be interviewed again, just as you are being.' Silently he added, but for the moment, we're trying to find out your possible motives for murdering the girl. 'I hope you'll bear with me, while I run through a possibility or two?'

  Sir Anthony waved his hand irritably in the air, as though to say, "Do what you like" and subsided heavily in his chai
r.

  Rafferty picked his next words carefully. He selected the ones most likely to push the doctor into unwise disclosures. 'Let's say you were having an affair with the murder victim. We’re just surmising here, Sir,’ he quickly added before either Melville-Briggs or the ever-more pained-looking Llewellyn could get a word in. ‘Perhaps you were afraid Lady Evelyn might find out about it and you feared she would divorce you? Perhaps you felt you risked losing all this?' His arm took in the splendours of the room and the grounds beyond it.

  Melville-Briggs gave a derisory snort. 'Do you really believe that I was having an affair with this wretched little tart? And that after having my wicked way with her, I tossed her aside, and she threatened to tell my wife? Is that the best that your bourgeois little mind can conjure up, Rafferty?'

  Rafferty gave his best Sphinx-like impression at Melville-Briggs's derision. Beside him, he heard Llewellyn give a heavy sigh, as if keen to establish some kind of Apartheid between himself and his superior’s lack of finesse. Rafferty scribbled a mental reminder about this for his ‘Hail fellow, well met’, moments.

  Sir Anthony held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. 'My hands are clean, Rafferty.' He gazed down at them from his throne-like chair. They were strong hands, expertly manicured, rich and smooth like the rest of him. 'Everyone knows that my wife and I live virtually separate lives and have done for some years. It's no secret. It suits us both rather well. My wife has the Hall and her church committees. I—I have another hobby, as you have discovered. Women. But not cheap tarts, Rafferty. My tastes run to something a little more up-market.'

  Frustrated that his words hadn't had the desired effect, and that Llewellyn would be sure to rub it in, in f***ing Latin, Rafferty was, for the moment, content merely to listen, while frantically scurrying about in his head to resurrect his argument. And to gather several apt put-downs for his oh-so-superior, sergeant.

  'My wife knows and accepts that I have certain ... needs; needs which she no longer wishes to satisfy. But we still manage to live fairly amicably. Besides, apart from anything else, I know my wife would never divorce me. Perhaps you weren't aware of it, Rafferty, but the Melvilles are an old Catholic family. There's never been a divorce in my wife’s family, and my wife is not the sort of woman to end a centuries’-old tradition.' He leaned back in his throne-like chair, effortless superiority well to the fore once more. 'So you see, even if I had known the dead girl, I knew "all this", as you call it, was perfectly safe.' Sir Anthony picked up a slim manila file from his in-tray, as though to indicate that the audience was over. 'Now, if I might be allowed to get on with my work?'