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

by Geraldine Evans

  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 in 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. He'll 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 chair. Rafferty picked his next words carefully, selecting the ones most likely to push the doctor into unwise disclosures. 'Let's say you were having an affair with the murder victim. 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.

  Melville-Briggs gave a derisive snort. 'Do you really believe that I was having an affair with this wretched little tart? 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 sat stone-faced at Melville-Briggs's amused contempt. Beside him, he heard Llewellyn give a heavy sigh as though regretting his chief's lack of finesse. Sir Anthony held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. 'My hands are clean, Rafferty.' He gazed down at them complacently. 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, Rafferty was, for the moment, content merely to listen. '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 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?'

  Rafferty ignored the hint. After a wait of thirty seconds, Sir Anthony raised his head and fixed him with a haughty glare.

  'Was there something else, Rafferty?'

  The arrogant way he ignored his rank and called him by his surname riled Rafferty, it had done all along. He might have been the butler, dismissed once he'd brought the after dinner port. Normally, he was a relaxed, easy-going man, with a quirky sense of humour, but now the quick temper of his forbears was aroused and demanded some retaliation. Trying to keep his voice as bland as Melville-Briggs's better efforts, he remarked pointedly, 'I'm sorry you should be so antagonistic, Sir. I would have thought a man in your position would recognise his duty to help the police.'

  Melville-Briggs fixed Rafferty with cold eyes and for a few brief moments, the real man behind the cultivated urbanity showed through clearly. 'A man in my position recognises only one thing, Rafferty - the importance of staying there and I find it offensive to have my good name besmirched, my professional colleagues questioned about my movements. It invites speculation and gossip of the crudest kind.'

  'Most people would find murder more offensive, Sir,' he said roughly. 'Or don't you think a common tart has a right to justice from the law?' Melville-Briggs waved the suggestion aside and Rafferty continued. 'We can't be sure that another young woman won't meet the same fate.' Suddenly, sickened by the whole business, he decided to play his wild card. Taking the photo-fit picture of the girl in the pub, he threw it on the desk. 'Miranda, for instance.' Had he imagined Melville-Briggs's loss of colour? he wondered. It seemed likely as the doctor recovered quickly and called his bluff.

  'Miranda?' he questioned softly. 'Miranda who?'

  Rafferty didn't intend to let on that he didn't know. It was possible that Melville-Briggs might merely be testing the extent of his knowledge and it wouldn't do for him to realise that both his information and his informant were far from reliable. Taking his own acting skills out, Rafferty dusted them off. 'Let me get this straight, Sir - just for the record, you understand. Are you saying that you know nobody who bears any resemblance to this girl? Nobody by the name of Miranda?' He allowed a note of faint surprise to enter his voice as he tried to imply that he had information to the contrary. 'It's not a very common name.'

  'I cannot recollect anyone of that name who resembles this girl,' the doctor replied suavely. 'Perhaps you would like me to make a few enquiries?' he suggested with a biting irony.

  'That won't be necessary, thank you, Sir. Our own enquiries are proceeding very nicely. Very nicely indeed,' he repeated with an air of satisfaction.

  This time there was no mistaking the quickly concealed dismay. Rafferty assumed an even more omniscient air and decided he could risk exaggerating the extent of their knowledge. 'We believe this Miranda had connections with your London clinic. We know she was in this area on the night of the murder and expected to meet someone, which is rather odd, because, so far, we haven't found anyone from round here who admits to knowing her. Perhaps she had intended meeting the dead girl or perhaps not, but it's strange that she hasn't chosen to come forward.' He let his eyes meet the doctor's. 'I imagine Nurse Wright told you about the young woman who gave her a note for you?'

  'I believe she did mention something of the sort,' the doctor replied with every appearance of untroubled calm. 'But as she threw the note away, I've no idea who the girl might have been. I have a large circle of friends and acquaintances, Rafferty, a lot of them females, as your investigations have revealed. The girl could have been any one of them.'

  'Don't you think it strange that she hasn't come forward?'

  He shrugged. 'That's easily explained. I move in very successful, well-travelled circles, Rafferty' Melville-Briggs sounded smug. 'This woman could have been out of the country at the time news of the murder broke. It's possible that she isn't even aware that you're looking for her, yet you seem determined to make it look suspicious and...'

  'It's just that I wondered why she didn't telephone first if she wanted to see you, instead of turning up out of the blue.'

  'You know what impulsive creatures women can be Rafferty. They don't always stop to think.'

  Melville-Briggs's plausible answers irritated Rafferty and he couldn't resist a little reminder. 'Still, if your friend is abroad, I expect she'll turn up shortly and then we'll find out the truth, won't we, Sir?' He leaned forward. 'Now. Just for the record. Are you quite sure you knew neither the murdered girl, Linda Wilks, nor this Miranda?'

  'Quite sure.' Melville-Briggs glared at him. 'Now, I have wo
rk to do - if there's nothing else?'

  Sir Anthony's voice was now tightly controlled and Rafferty felt disappointment seep into his soul. Now what? He hadn't succeeded in rattling him. He'd played his wild card and had nothing left to throw. But even if he had nothing in his hand but duds, he could still finish the game with dignity. 'Not at the moment, Sir,' he conceded. 'But when we have, we'll be back.' He felt balked of victory, but perked up a little as he remembered that even the most cast-iron alibis had been known to be broken. He would give a great deal to see Sir Anthony humbled. After he had sketched an ironic bow at the pointedly bent head, Rafferty and Llewellyn took their leave.

  'Well?' Rafferty burst out when they were out of earshot. 'You were watching him, what do you think?'

  'His alibi seems sound enough, Sir.' Llewellyn pursed his lips thoughtfully and directed a reproving glance at Rafferty. 'But we already knew that, that's why I don't understand why you pushed him so hard. He doesn't even seem to have any motive. Or at least, none that we've been able to discover. Besides, he doesn't strike me as a man who'd soil his own hands with murder. He'd more likely bribe someone else to do his dirty work for him.' Llewellyn's eyes darkened and his expression became enigmatic. 'I know you don't like him, Sir, but rest assured, whatever his sins, he'll pay for them eventually. Every guilty person is his own hangman according to Seneca.'

  'Well, that's a comforting thought,' remarked Rafferty sardonically. Although he was impressed by his sergeant's summing-up of Melville-Briggs, he wasn't in the mood to compliment him. Especially as he was aware that his own behaviour during the interview had been a bit over the top and, if old Seneca was right, retribution was sure to follow. 'It's a pity your mate, Seneca, won't be about with his reassuring platitudes when matey-boy in there starts complaining to the brass about me,' he observed sourly.

  Sensibly, Llewellyn made no attempt at commiseration. What would be the point? Rafferty mused dispiritedly, when they both knew that Superintendent Bradley, a gruff, no-nonsense Yorkshireman, hadn't got where he was by treating his junior officers with kid-gloves when they threatened his comfortable niche. Rafferty concluded that not only could he soon expect a flea in his ear, but that all the flea's friends and relations would come along for the ride. And, although he had the nous to keep the rest of his opinions to himself, it was obvious that Llewellyn would think it served him right.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The old man wanted results, did he? Rafferty grumbled to himself as he entered his office and slammed the door. It would serve Superintendent bloody Bradley right if he got them, gift wrapped.

  As he had anticipated, retribution had been very swift. And he didn't need two guesses as to who had stirred the shit. Even though he'd been warned off treading too heavily on those particular corns, he, for one, would enjoy tying Melville-Briggs up in presentation red ribbon, even if he got reduced to the rank of sergeant for his trouble. Disgruntled that Llewellyn seemed to number a knack for disappearing when the flak was flying among his other talents, Rafferty slumped dejectedly in his chair. The trouble was he had too many possible suspects. Sidney Wilks, for instance, was turning out to be a very interesting possibility, as he'd tried to explain to the superintendent, in an attempt to halt Bradley's Vesuvius-like eruption. It didn't help that Wilks had been the Welsh Wizard's preferred choice, rather than his own.

  According to Tina, the absent Streatham flatmate, Sidney Wilks wasn't the solid citizen his privet hedge proclaimed, but had used his respectability as a shield for something far from seemly. Linda had confided that her father had regularly abused her sexually as a child. Was it true, though? he wondered, and if so, had Daphne Wilks' known? Rafferty's nose twitched, once - an infallible guide and he nodded slowly. Wilks was capable of such an act. And Daphne Wilks? Wasn't it true that those who denied knowledge of such a dreadful act, denied it most strongly to themselves? He viewed the coming interview with distaste, but consoled himself with the unkind thought that Llewellyn would relish it even less than he did.

  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 the 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 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.
r />   Her face flushed an ugly red as she briefly met his eye, mumbling, 'No, of course not,' before looking away again.

  'I see.' 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, but I suppose you're right. 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.'