Dead Before Morning (Rafferty & Llewellyn humorous crime series #1 in series)

by Geraldine Evans

  Rafferty flicked a finger at her large handbag. 'And did you take that with you to the dance?'

  'No. I had a small clutch bag. I had to work late and knew I would have no time to go home and change. I left this bag locked in Nathanial's car. Luckily, I remembered it and managed to catch him in the car park before he drove off.'

  So, Rafferty mused, Nathanial Whittaker had had the opportunity to help himself to the keys. Did Miss Parry suspect as much? Was that why she looked anxious? he wondered. He would have known she would be on leave till early the following week and therefore unlikely to miss the keys till then. 'How did you get in without your key when you returned from leave?'

  'I generally use the main entrance. I have a car, so I mightn't have known the keys were missing for some time.'

  'Perhaps they fell out of your bag into the car and Dr. Whittaker found them?' he suggested gently.

  'He did call round the next day.'

  Rafferty frowned uncomprehendingly. 'Didn't he say?'

  She flushed again. 'I didn't open the door. I was busy working, as I told you. I didn't want to stop and risk being delayed for hours. I live with my widowed mother, Inspector, but she was out on Saturday morning. I thought it might have been one of her friends and they have a tendency to linger. The flat is so designed that it's impossible to see who's at the door.'

  'It might as easily have been Dr. Whittaker come to return your keys,' Rafferty remarked, trying to catch her out. She didn't fall for it. Now, she seemed subtly to withdraw from him, as though his attempted trick had somehow disappointed her.

  'I only saw that it was Dr. Whittaker when I went to the window overlooking the car park. But as I was unaware that I'd lost the keys, Inspector, I wasn't to know that he'd call round.'

  Touche. 'So you weren't.' Rafferty gave her a rueful smile. 'What a memory I've got.' She gave no answering smile. It was apparent to Rafferty that she was very preoccupied about something. Could Whittaker have engineered an argument between them so he could sneak off and keep an appointment with Linda Wilks? He'd had the opportunity to get the key to that side gate; had he, fired by his fight with Melville-Briggs decided to make old Tony the butt of scandal-mongers for a change? Did Gwendoline Parry suspect something similar? he wondered. Was she trying to protect him from the consequences of his own folly?

  Perhaps it was about time they saw Dr. Whittaker. He might have some serious explaining to do or he might not. He could have turned up at Miss Parry's the next day simply to kiss and make up not to return the keys before she'd noticed they'd gone. Either way, he'd been unlucky.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Holbrook Clinic was crying out for money, that much was obvious as Rafferty and Llewellyn drove through the open gates. The grounds were a lot smaller than at the Elmhurst Sanatorium, but they were badly neglected. Couch-grass pushed through the gravel of the drive and the only plants were hardy shrubs that were capable of looking after themselves. As Gilbert had said, there were no gymnasiums or jacuzzis here.

  The Victorian buildings, too, had a shabby air of rather faded grandeur and, like the minor gentry from that era, attempts were made to keep up appearances; like the freshly-painted black metal gates and the smartly-uniformed gate-porter - surface shows that cost little. But the further one penetrated, the harder the pretence was to keep up and no attempt had been made to repoint the red brickwork or paint the many windows. It looked like the county asylum it had once been and still sported the grandiose turreted style the Victorians had favoured for such institutions.

  A passing nurse escorted them to the doctor's office. They introduced themselves and with an air of distraction, Dr. Whittaker gestured at the two uncomfortable looking chairs in front of his desk. Rafferty wondered if they were chosen specially to deter visitors from staying too long and interrupting his work. They would do the job admirably, he reflected as he sat down. The stiff, presumably horsehair padding didn't give an inch. Studying him, Rafferty realised that, in his youth, Nathanial Whittaker must have been quite beautiful, with his thin and elegant features and soulful dark eyes. He was still a fine-looking man, but now he had a careworn air, the thick dark hair was greying rapidly; it was quite long and when it fell over his forehead, he pushed it back with long and impatient fingers; surgeon's fingers. Rafferty wondered if he regretted his youthful vow because his research work over twenty years and more had achieved little. Perhaps it was as Sam had said, and his lack of success in the research field was because his work was driven by the grief of a personal loss rather than by a true vocation.

  'You'll have heard about the murder at The Elmhurst Sanatorium, Doctor?' Rafferty began hastily, as, having sat them down, Whittaker seemed to promptly forget them. His gaze drifted down to his papers and he looked set to become immersed.

  'What?' He raised his head, frowning slightly as though he had forgotten why they were there. With a sigh, he shut the file and sat more upright, looking from Rafferty to Llewellyn and back again before he nodded. 'Yes, yes. A couple of the staff mentioned it.' He glanced at Rafferty with an air of bewilderment. 'But I don't quite understand why...?'

  'Just routine, Doctor,' Rafferty reassured him. 'You didn't know the victim yourself, I take it?'

  'Me? No. I didn't know her.' Rather naively, he added, 'She was never a patient of mine,' as though he couldn't imagine any other circumstances in which he might know a woman.

  'I understand you were at The George on Friday night?'

  Dr. Whittaker nodded again. 'Yes. I didn't want to go, there's too much work to do here to waste time attending such self-congratulatory nonsense, but I knew it was too good an opportunity to miss. I hoped someone might put in a good word for me about research funds.' His face darkened and his sensitive features were distorted by an expression of such intense hatred, that Rafferty was taken aback. 'It was a waste of time, of course, any chance I had was ruined before I got there. Anthony Melville-Briggs saw to that, as usual. I suppose you heard all about the fight I had with him?' Rafferty nodded faintly and waited for further enlightenment. It wasn't long in coming. 'He made sure if there were any research funds up for grabs, he'd get them. He's too clever to ever accuse outright, but I knew it was him all right. Sly innuendo and locker-room jokes are more his style. Impossible to fight against, of course. That was another reason for going to that convention. I knew I was isolated. Unfortunately, socialising's important in my line, as it is in most professions, but I couldn't face most of it, knowing he'd be there, full of urbane charm and social ease, doing his best to make me look foolish.'

  He fiddled with the cover of the file, the pens and other paraphernalia on his desk, his fingers never still for a moment. It was a wonder he didn't wear himself out, Rafferty reflected.

  'I was in one of the toilet cubicles at The George when I heard the latest gossip doing the rounds. Now he's implying I go in for late abortions here as a useful side-line and use the foetuses for research. That I keep them wired up to machines to keep them alive so I have a steady supply of cells for my work. I was blazing. I found him, intending to have it out with him, once and for all, but he just laughed. And the madder I grew, the more contemptuous he became. In the end, I threw a punch at him. Of course I missed. His friends dragged me away. I left soon after. That would be about 10.30 p.m., I suppose.'

  Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged glances. Surely the man couldn't be that naive? mused Rafferty. Didn't he realise that he had just provided them with an excellent motive for murder? Had he killed Linda Wilks hoping to incriminate Melville-Briggs? At the very least, he could be sure that Sir Anthony would get some very damaging publicity, even if he wasn't suspected of the murder. Or was he being disingenuous? he wondered, knowing there was no way the argument could be concealed, had he hoped to cast doubt on such suspicions by his very openness?

  The murder victim had been pregnant, although only two months along. Her father had mentioned that Linda had received a phone call around 10.30 p.m. that evening from a man. If he had been tell
ing the truth, could it have been Whittaker phoning from the foyer of The George asking to meet her? he wondered. Her diary had been less help in tracing her clients than he'd hoped. She'd used a code, a crude, schoolgirlish thing, but it might have been as cryptic as The Times crossword for all the success they'd had with it. He returned to Whittaker's complaint. 'You're a psychiatrist, not a surgeon. Why should anyone believe...?'

  'Any butcher can do abortions, Inspector.'

  'But surely late abortions are dangerous?'

  Whittaker's dark eyes looked sadly into his. 'Don't you know? Apart from my other evil habits I'm supposed to offer these late abortions to desperate women - drug addicts, the homeless, the dregs of society, the implication being that I wouldn't worry if they died. Melville-Briggs knew very well that I've tended to cater for the poorer, more wretched elements of society, especially since my wi...' He broke off for a moment and a shudder seemed to pass through him before he began again, an anguished expression on his face. 'He always managed to add a certain measure of truth to his lies.' He sighed and looked down at his fingers where they clutched at the file. Slowly, he straightened them out, but almost at once they involuntarily tightened their grip again. 'The evidence was all circumstantial, but people would wonder if there might be some truth in the rest.'

  Rafferty was wondering about that himself and he looked at Whittaker with new interest.

  Whittaker laughed harshly. 'There's no need to look at me like that, Inspector. It's not true. You can search the place if you like. Besides', his mouth turned down. 'Even if I'd contemplated such research, I wouldn't have the money for it. Do you know how much such machinery would cost? He could afford them, of course. The work I do is far more valuable, yet he's the one who gets the funding. And for what? That stupid study of the drug-addictive personality, while I'm starved of funds for vital research. I could tell them the type of people who become drug-addicts; it's the weak, the stupid, the gullible. I sympathise with them, I treat them, after all, but their illnesses are self-inflicted. I don't know if you're aware of this, em, Inspector, but my father died of Alzheimer's Disease. He...'

  Rafferty nodded. 'I heard about your father, Doctor. I sympathise. My grandmother went the same way. It's a terrible thing to have to watch a loved one go like that.'

  Whittaker gave him a grim nod. 'A man like my father could have had many useful years ahead of him - valuable years of helping others, saving lives, easing suffering. Instead, he was condemned to an undignified and degrading end. Sometimes, when I see how easily Melville-Briggs gets research funds, I despair.'

  'But there's plenty of research going on in that field now. Aren't they finding some interesting results with..?' Human foetuses, he had been about to say before he thought better of it.

  Whittaker nodded. 'But that's other people's research. Not mine. I want to contribute something. Something important. It would make up for a lot.'

  'Does it matter who finds the cure as long as it's found?' Rafferty asked gently.

  'It matters to me, Inspector.'

  From the expression on Whittaker's face, it mattered very much. Melville-Briggs's accusation against him was beginning to look as though it might have a little more substance than he'd originally thought. This man might just stop at nothing to nobble a rival, particularly one whom he had good reason to hate. Rafferty cleared his throat. 'Er, to get back to the night of the murder, Sir. You said you left The George early?'

  'Yes. If I'd stayed and got drunk I'd have probably murdered the bastard.' He stopped abruptly, as if he had just realised what he had said.

  Rafferty wondered if he'd murdered Linda Wilks instead, leaving her body on his enemy's doorstep; an apt revenge for Melville-Briggs, that user of women. 'Where did you go, Doctor, when you left The George?'

  'I came back here and continued with my work.'

  'Did anyone see you once you left The George?'

  'I don't believe so.' Whittaker raised his head as though he had suddenly wondered why he was being questioned about his movements. 'Why do you ask?'

  Rafferty stared at him, once again wondering if Whittaker could really be that naive? Circumstances were again building a case around Nathanial Whittaker and this time not simply for questionable professional activities, but for murder. Melville-Briggs had forcefully implied that Whittaker was capable of the most desperate measures in order to get back at him. Rafferty had assumed that Sir Anthony suffered from paranoia. Now he wasn't so sure. 'A young woman has been murdered, Doctor,' Rafferty reminded him softly. 'We need to question everyone, however remotely connected.'

  'And you suspect me?' Nathanial Whittaker gave an incredulous laugh. 'God,' he demanded roughly of the ceiling, 'what else can that bastard do to me?'

  Rafferty shuffled guiltily on the hard chair, his own suspicions making him uncomfortable. Whittaker's wife had left him, his work, to which he had devoted a lifetime, was not going well, and he had to suffer the derision and public success of a man he regarded with contempt. Whittaker was a man frustrated in both his personal and professional life. Had that frustration and resentment led him to murder?

  Linda Wilks had been one of society's dregs, as described by Melville-Briggs. And she had been pregnant. Put the two together and you had the ideal victim for Whittaker if he chose to make use of her. Had Whittaker been the medical man who had phoned her? Had she met him and sought his help to get rid of the baby? Perhaps, through contacts at the Elmhurst Sanatorium, she had heard about the rumours that Dr. Melville-Briggs had spread about his work and mentioned them. Even if he hadn't met her with the firm intention of killing her, it was possible this had brought back the fury raised earlier that evening. Had he struck out at her in a blind rage? Had he, with a dead body on his hands, done some quick thinking and mutilated her? He had access to a key to the gate. But if the murder had happened like that, it smacked more of premeditation than sudden rage, for he'd have had to obtain the keys before he met her, knowing full well why he would need them. If he'd merely made the appointment with Linda for sexual gratification, he would hardly choose to met her on the enemy's doorstep. Rafferty could imagine the play old Tony would make of that if Whittaker was caught with a prostitute.

  Rafferty wondered about his relationship with Gwen Parry as he gazed at the now bent dark head. It appeared very one-sided. She typed up his research notes and made herself available on the occasions when he required an escort, but to Rafferty it seemed Whittaker made nothing more of her than a convenience and she was apparently happy to let him. A strange relationship.

  He'd left The George early and alone and had seen no-one. And he had a big grudge against Melville-Briggs. Means, motive and opportunity, as the crime writers put it. Now Rafferty gave the nod to Llewellyn to take up the questioning.

  'Dr. Whittaker?' The dark head raised and bleak eyes gazed back at him. 'I'm sorry that this has been a painful experience for you, Sir,' murmured Llewellyn softly, with every evidence of sincerity. 'But it is necessary, I hope you understand that?' Whittaker nodded. 'I believe you escorted Miss Gwendoline Parry to the dinner at The George?'

  Again Whittaker just nodded. It was almost as though he had lost interest in the conversation. But Llewellyn's next words regained his attention.

  'I understand you called round to Miss Parry's home on the Saturday morning after the murder?'

  Nathanial Whittaker stared at him. 'How did you know that?'

  'You were seen,' Llewellyn replied, without elaborating. 'Did you often call at Miss Parry's home?'

  'No. Not - not often.'

  'What sort of relationship do you and Miss Parry have?'

  'We're - friends, I suppose you'd call it.'

  'Not lovers?' Rafferty put in.

  The suggestion seemed to horrify him. 'Of course not.' Whittaker blinked rapidly. 'I fail to see...'

  'You're both adults, both free,' Rafferty went on. 'There's nothing to stop you.'

  'My relationship with Miss Parry wasn't like that, I assure you. We w
ere friends, nothing more.' He frowned. 'Surely Miss Parry hasn't given you the impression that she was any more to me? I thought she understood. My work...' His voice trailed off and he looked embarrassed.

  Poor Miss Parry, thought Rafferty. It was obvious that Nathanial Whittaker's intentions towards here were only too honourable, if a little selfish. Had she been hoping his intentions would grow a little more dis-honourable? A little more passionate? He had abandoned her at the dinner, which indicated that his feelings about her were just as he had described. He had neglected his wife, who had apparently been quite a looker, a wife, whom everyone that Rafferty had spoken to, had claimed Whittaker loved, as much as he was capable of loving anyone. Had Gwen Parry really believed she would fare better at his hands? Like Miss Robinson, Rafferty's old school teacher, she was doomed to bitter disappointment. Research used up all his passion. He would have none left for the Gwen Parry's of this world.

  Llewellyn continued his questioning. 'Perhaps you'd like to tell us why you called round that particular morning?'