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

by Geraldine Evans

  He despatched Llewellyn to the nick to get more copies made of the photo-fit with orders, when he got them, to go to Dr. Melville-Briggs's London consulting-rooms to interview the staff there. Surely, if anyone had occasionally stayed late, they might have seen this Miranda? If Mrs. Devine's mind had really been as clear about the identification as it had seemed and they were one and the same girl.

  If Rafferty could locate this Miranda, she might turn out to be a valuable witness. It was surprising that she hadn't already come forward voluntarily, it wasn't as if the case hadn't received enough publicity, as the tabloids had seized on the story like sensation-starved cannibals. It was possible, of course, that she was trying to protect someone and that someone could only be Melville-Briggs. The man seemed to bring out such an instinct in too many women for Rafferty's liking. Perhaps, when Llewellyn returned from London, he would rattle the doctor's cage a little?

  Rafferty looked at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Damn Llewellyn. It was eleven o'clock, he should be back by now. He'd rung yesterday afternoon to say he would have to spend the night in town. Some of the staff at Sir Anthony's London consulting-rooms had left quite recently and he was having trouble tracking them down. But surely there couldn't be that many people employed in one doctor's rooms?

  Not for the first time in his career, Rafferty cursed his impetuosity. It was rather a pity that he'd given way to the satisfaction of telling Nurse Wright that Smythe hadn't been arrested for murder. She wouldn't have known any different if he'd kept quiet, as Smythe was off duty for a few days and wouldn't have been expected at the hospital in any case. The element of surprise might have been useful when he saw Sir Anthony. Still, he mused, it was still possible that he didn't know, as he was attending a conference in the midlands and wasn't expected back till lunchtime today.

  Rafferty had agreed that Llewellyn should kill two birds with one stone, as it were, by going to see the Melville-Briggs's son at his business - not that it seemed likely that Timothy, as described by Gilbert, would be likely to have any doings with a prostitute, leastways, not a female one, but they might as well check it out. But if Llewellyn was wasting time chatting about vintage cars at that garage...! This was the only positive lead they had - slight though it might be, and Rafferty didn't want to tackle Melville-Briggs till Llewellyn got back. The frustration only increased his impatience. For, otherwise, their investigations had scored a big fat zero. They had yet to find the murder weapon or Linda Wilks's clothes, and in spite of the press coverage, no-one but Smythe had seen the car parked outside the hospital. Added to that, the house-to-house had yielded zilch in the way of more information and no-one calling herself Miranda had so far come forward.

  Too late, he realised that he should have gone to London himself. It would have been better than hanging around waiting for Llewellyn to dig the dirt - if he was even capable of something so grubby, though surely, even Llewellyn realised that they needed answers and needed them quickly. Pressure was building from every angle - press, public, hospital staff - especially its leading light. Once Melville-Briggs discovered that Simon Smythe wasn't going to be charged with the crime, he would be sure to make his displeasure felt. He had made it clear enough that he wanted a quick and convenient solution and Rafferty wondered if his only reason was concern about what the bad publicity would do to the hospital and its profits? Had the girl in the pub really been this Miranda come down to see him? It seemed possible as, apart from Mrs. Devine, no-one else admitted to knowing the girl before that evening. Not that Melville-Briggs had either, of course - yet. Miranda was a loose end and he didn't like loose ends. He consulted his watch again, with the same result as before. The hands seemed to be crawling.

  Llewellyn had finally returned, but he was minus any good news, which didn't altogether surprise Rafferty. Timothy Melville-Briggs was out of the running - not that he'd really been in. And, needless to say, no-one at Sir Anthony's London consulting-rooms had recognised the girl in the photo-fit picture. 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, here was another member of his staff unlikely to find another suitable job, Rafferty reflected. She was trapped as surely as Simon 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 it, her reaction surprised him.

  'Surely that's not necessary?' she queried sharply. 'You don't imagine that I... that a woman would attack a young girl in such a brutal fashion, Inspector?'

  In his experience, anything was possible and Sam Dally had said a woman could have murdered the girl. She came over as a woman of strong passions behind that calm exterior - certainly capable of killing. 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 worried him. 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 tones of satisfaction didn't escape Rafferty and a little tingle of pleasure tickled his spine. It seemed he might have been lucky and old Tony hadn't heard the latest on Smythe. '
Show them in at once. I don't want to be disturbed, so keep back all calls. And Mrs. Galvin. I'm sure they'd like some coffee.'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sir Anthony beamed at them 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 about his detecting abilities. 'Ahem, do sit down. 'It's a great relief that you've discovered the culprit,' he 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. I assumed you'd have heard.'

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

  'Smythe wasn't arrested at all, 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 and he snatched up the receiver. 'I thought I told you not to put through any calls? Do I have to...?'

  Mrs. Galvin must have said something soothing in his ear, for instead of continuing to carp, he merely said peremptorily, 'Oh, very well. Put her through.' To Rafferty's amusement, when he next spoke there was no trace of annoyance. 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? 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 the Lady Harriet was rather more astute than Melville-Briggs had thought. She seemed to find his explanation hard to swallow, for he was forced to go on in this placatory vein for several minutes.

  Although Rafferty still listened to the one-sided conversation, he let his gaze wander round the room. Not for Melville-Briggs the interview conducted in a drab and comfortless basement, he wryly mused. 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 had 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 trickcyclist 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 a rich oriental carpet in 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 red thatch was badly in need of a cut. He was also somewhat 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. Unfortunately, it did nothing to improve his growing irritation.

  A veritable photographer's gallery of framed prints were 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, reflected Rafferty cynically, he should be grateful Sir Anthony didn't have a large, colour picture of himself posed with the Chief Constable for good measure. Now that would have had good intimidation value.

  An even more impressive array of medical qualifications were grouped together in the centre of the display and 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? he speculated. A man like Sir Anthony thought the entire world was for sale. Sadly, most of it was. As he thought of Simon Smythe's pitiful collection of honours and memories, he 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 put the receiver down. Reality then again took over from the delights of make-believe.

  At least, the telephone call had given Sir Anthony time to get his disappointment in perspective and now he sat back into his chair, drumming 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 him, 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 did not, it merely made him more keen to prick the ego on the throne.

  'Of course,' he remarked, 'in view of the news about Smythe, you'll understand that it's necessary to interview everyone again? Perhaps you'd like to enlarge on your previous statement about your movements on the night of the murder?' Rafferty suggested.

  'Enlarge on my movements?' 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 one, 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 calmly. 'Besides, it's hardly necessary. Can't we be civilized about this?'

  'It's not very civilized 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. '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 a
s 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 reproved. 'I have a foolproof alibi, Rafferty. You won't succeed in breaking it.'

  'I expect you're right,' Rafferty responded pleasantly. 'But even foolproof 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 and that if Melville-Briggs's alibi should turn out to be as sound as he claimed, he would pay for it.

  '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.'