A Thrust to the Vitals

by Evans, Geraldine

Fortunately, Llewellyn seemed to take his last comment as a hint that he was time-wasting, for he returned to his desk, put the photo-fit aside, and continued with organising the allocation of the day’s CID duties.

  Llewellyn, still convinced that Ivor Bignall was psychologically wrong for the role of back-stabbing murderer, was concentrating his investigatory efforts on those he believed did fit such a profile and who were both psychologically capable of the crime and had the means and opportunity to commit it. In this category he had filed the Farraday twins and Randy Rawlins.

  Rafferty was more than happy to let him get on with it, relieved that he was, for the moment, concentrating all his energies away from Mickey and the photo-fit. Not that Llewellyn had much choice about this, because to Rafferty’s considerable surprise, the self-imposed form of ‘omertà’ that Mickey’s friends had applied to themselves, seemed to be holding.

  Indeed, several of them, concerned by both the Mickey-inspired photo-fit and his lengthy and unexplained absence both from his flat and his usual haunts, even rang Rafferty at the station to seek his guidance as to what they should do.

  As discreetly as he could, he simply advised them to carry on as they were doing, which was keeping shtum, confident that they would spread the word.

  Meanwhile, with Llewellyn engaged in trying to prove which of the three he had selected as most closely matching his profile for Seward’s killer, was the guilty party, Rafferty concentrated his fire on the rest: Ivor Bignall, Idris Khan and Marcus Canthorpe. The ladies in the case — Mandy Khan, Dorothea Bignall and Samantha Harman, as well as the two security guards who seemed to have had no previous connection with Seward — he would fit in as and when. Certainly, the first two ladies had motives in plenty for wishing to kill Seward and he knew he would need to find time to question them again.

  As for the male suspects; Bignall’s plans on advancing his family tree had been stymied by Seward’s rape and the subsequent botched abortion, before his seed could take root. Which might or might not provide Bignall with a major motive, depending on how strongly he really felt about carving out a dynasty.

  Idris Khan, too, could be said to have a strong motive. If, that was, the Farraday twins could be believed when they claimed that Mandy Khan had had a fling with Seward and Khan found out about it.

  Although the story about Mandy having an affair with Seward didn’t seem to have spread beyond the twins, when he questioned Khan about it in his mayoral parlour, Rafferty, from Khan’s determined and furious denials that it was true, got the distinct impression that the opposite was, in fact, the case.

  Maybe Seward had unwisely let slip his conquest to Mandy’s mayoral husband in a bout of macho one-upmanship? Or maybe Khan had heard about it from some other source? The creeping Farraday twins seemed a distinct probability.

  The other possibility in Rafferty’s current suspect line up, was Marcus Canthorpe — he of the legacy expectations that were doomed to disappointment. Idly, Rafferty found himself wondering whether Canthorpe had yet learned the bad news from Seward’s solicitor.

  On an impulse, he rang their Norwich offices and managed to catch the solicitor between appointments. Philip Metcalfe confirmed he had written to all the heirs. Canthorpe must have heard on the Seward family grapevine about these letters because he had contacted the solicitor himself when this much-anticipated correspondence failed to arrive. Metcalfe told Rafferty that he had already broken the bad news.

  ‘How did Canthorpe take it?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘He was upset at first, but he realised there was little point in arguing about the terms of the will with me. In fact, he seemed to be more annoyed at himself for being gullible enough to take Sir Rufus at his word that he would receive a legacy. I’ve had Keith Farraday on the phone, too, in search of the same reassurances as Canthorpe. Though he didn’t take it on the chin with quite Canthorpe’s phlegm and became so abusive that I had to put the phone down on him.’

  Rafferty thanked the solicitor and, after a few more exchanges, bid him adieu and hung up. He sat thoughtfully staring out of the window as the afternoon turned into twilight and, one after the other, like so many yellow tiger eyes glowing in the darkness, the lights in the town came on. He wished they could show him the way as easily as they did those not on the trail of a murderer.

  He had been able to find no connections between Seward’s heirs, deposed heirs or those present at the reception and who might, for a consideration, agree to remove the obstacle to their inheritance. Unless, that was, one of the guests bore Seward a grudge on their own account and was in need of funds and prepared to rid the world of Seward in a ‘two grudges for the price of one’, scenario and had come to some private arrangement.

  Bignall’s grudge wasn’t about money. Neither was Idris Khan’s. And Canthorpe couldn’t have known before Seward’s death that he had reason to bear his employer a grudge. He wasn’t in urgent need of funds, either — his finances were in much ruder health than Rafferty’s own, as he had lived in at Seward’s expense for the past five years and had been able to save quite a little nest egg.

  The Farraday twins didn’t seem short of funds either, if their self-indulgence in drugs, antiques and paintings were any indication.

  Which left Randy Rawlins, who, in spite— or perhaps because of — the extensive and expensive wardrobe that took up half his staff bedroom, didn’t seem to have any money put by. His bank account was overdrawn by a grand and his three credit cards were all cranked up to their maximum. Shame he had no reason to believe himself down to inherit some much needed money in Seward’s will…

  But, of course, all of them had had the opportunity to murder Seward, whether for reasons of monetary gain or some other motive, so none could be discounted. It was comforting to think that, as a suspect, Mickey was certainly not the only contender. But were any of the other possibles the type to kill in such a manner? Rafferty fretted. He pulled a face when he realised that Llewellyn had managed to infect him with his own psychological assessment of the suspects. And while Rafferty might not have as great a belief in the benefits of psychological assessment or profiling as his educated, intellectual sergeant, and thought it just as likely that someone determined to kill would choose the means most likely to be successful and least likely to put them in any physical danger, he didn’t, whatever Llewellyn might believe, dismiss the angle completely out of hand.

  As with Ivor Bignall and Idris Khan, he simply thought that all three of Seward’s employees were either smart enough or sly enough to go in for a bluff in the means they chose to commit murder. Though, in the twins’ case, he supposed it would have to be a double-bluff, given the cowardly, back-stabbing way the murder was committed. The cowardly, behind the back attack had always been their preferred style.

  This thought, of course, reminded him that the ghastly Farraday twins weren’t the only ones with a yellow streak. Cousin Nigel, he of the devious nature and preference for deceit and working behind people’s backs might, after all, turn out to be a stronger candidate for this murder than Rafferty had at first thought.

  He sighed and dragged his gaze away from the slyly mesmerising lights beyond the window. Once again, all this thinking had got him nowhere, with or without Llewellyn’s psychological approach. What he needed was a pointer to guilt. But so far, even though he had as fine an assortment of suspects as any policeman could wish for, this was the one thing he lacked.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘You and Maureen all sorted for Christmas?’ Rafferty asked Llewellyn as they prepared to go home at the end of another frustrating day

  ‘Yes. All the preparations are in place. All the presents either under the tree or long since posted.’

  It was far more than Rafferty had achieved, but he kept a grip on his envy to ask, ‘Your mother coming for the festivities?’

  Llewellyn shook his head. ‘No. She wanted Maureen and me to have our first Christmas since our marriage on our own. I couldn’t dissuade her from the decision.
’

  With his own not so distant memories of playing gooseberry when the pair were courting, Rafferty murmured with feeling, ‘Not always easy, I suppose, to make a third with two love birds. Maybe next year?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t like to think of her on her own. Christmas should be a time for families to be together.’

  Rafferty, unwilling to consider what action his brother might take should he still be incarcerated, alone, in the caravan over the festive season, changed the subject. ‘So, what have you bought Maureen for Christmas? Something nice, I hope?’

  ‘We thought so. A joint present. We chose it together. We’ve booked a cruise up the Nile for the end of January with stops at all the ancient sites.’

  It sounded a typical Dafyd Llewellyn holiday; both he and his new wife, Maureen, were keen on foot-slogging around ancient sites of historical significance — hadn’t they spent their honeymoon trudging around Greece’s ancient wonders?. Rafferty, by contrast, while having an interest in history closer to home, was more keen on sun loungers by the pool than tiring tramps.

  ‘Always supposing we’ve solved the case by the time your cruise comes round,‘ Rafferty reminded him.

  ‘Of course. Maureen understands that we may have to cancel if this investigation hasn’t been concluded by then.’

  ‘You’ve got her something to open on the day, I take it? You can’t open a holiday cruise.’

  ‘Token gifts only. We’re not children.’

  Rafferty pulled a face. A ‘token’ gift didn’t sound much fun to him. And while he wouldn’t say no to a cruise, Christmas without piles of presents to open held no allure. You’re just a big kid at heart, he told himself.

  ‘And what about you and Abra?’ Llewellyn asked as they retrieved their coats and headed down the corridor. ‘Is your Christmas all arranged?’

  ‘I wish. I don’t know how Abra’s Christmas list is progressing, but I haven’t even written mine, never mind bought anything for Abra.’ Or anyone else. Conscious that he was leaving it late, Rafferty added brightly, ‘Still, her engagement ring cost me a packet. Maybe she’ll take it as engagement and Christmas present both?’

  Beyond raising an eyebrow at this unlikely scenario, Llewellyn made no comment.

  But he didn’t need to say anything, Rafferty reflected, as they reached the door to reception. Rafferty didn’t actually believe such a reaction from Abra was likely either.

  Llewellyn said goodnight and vanished through the outer doors. Rafferty, just about to follow him, was delayed by Bill Beard behind the reception counter.

  ‘Mind the shop for me?’ he asked Rafferty. ‘I’m bursting and need to go to the bog, only Smales disappeared twenty minutes ago and left me on my own. I haven’t seen the idler since. But when I do—’ Beard broke off and headed for the door, leaving his threatened retribution against Timothy Smales hanging in the air.

  Rafferty shouted after Bill’s retreating back, ‘Don’t be too long. I want to get away.’

  ‘Give me five, ten minutes,’ the now disembodied voice replied. Bill popped his head back round the door. ‘Only the waterworks don’t get up the head of steam they once did, so every visit takes a lot longer.’

  Once Bill had disappeared on his urgent mission, Rafferty reached his hand under the reception counter and helped himself to Bill’s Daily Mirror to while away the time, suspecting from previous experience that Bill’s “five or ten minutes” would stretch to half an hour. Rafferty had completed the crossword for the middle-aged constable before Bill returned.

  ‘I was saving that to finish later,’ Bill complained as soon as he saw the completed puzzle.

  ‘Well, now I’ve saved you the trouble,’ Rafferty told him. ‘You’ve never managed to finish the thing yet. Anyway, I’m off. See you tomorrow.’ Before Bill could voice any further complaints, Rafferty went out into the night.

  As Rafferty made his way across the car park to his car, yet another bitter wind met him. The wind trailed a number of sharp hailstones, which flew straight at his face as if the wind, in playful mood, was indulging in a vicious, one-sided, snowball fight, but using clumps of ice for the balls.

  ‘You play too rough for me,’ Rafferty grumbled into the wind as more of the icy missiles landed direct hits. And as the size and number of these missiles increased, he put his arms over his bare head and ran for the car.

  He slithered his way out on to the road on a carpet of the white stones, only too aware that the drop in temperature wouldn’t have warmed Mickey’s cockles one iota.

  The next day was another long one. It was after nine o’clock by the time Rafferty drove away from the station and headed for the coast, stopping to pick up bread, milk and a takeaway for his brother on the way.

  The caravan park was as gloomy as ever. And, as Rafferty discovered after he had fought his way through the vicious hail onslaught, so was Mickey. Each time Rafferty saw his brother he appeared more depressed and morose. He wondered how much longer he could persuade Mickey to remain hidden. He wasn’t hopeful as a fatalistic acceptance of the inevitable seemed to have taken hold of his brother

  In the hope that it would cheer Mickey up, for the first time Rafferty risked a light. He had seen no one on his journey through the park so how risky could it be? Even so, he placed the low light on the floor in order to limit the possibility of its rays being noticed from outside and, in the hope that his words would encourage him, told his morose sibling, ‘We’ve a number of strong possibilities on the case. We’ve discovered that several of the suspects had reason to hate Seward.’

  The news didn’t noticeably improve Mickey’s defeated demeanour. He just grunted as if he was past caring.

  Rafferty tried again. ‘Yes, as I said, several of the guests at the party had a very strong motive to want Seward dead. Even better, one of them only found out what damage Seward had done to him on the day of the reception.’ He thought better of mentioning the names in case Mickey took it into his head to find them and drag a confession out of them. ‘That’s why, until I can nail down some proof, it’s essential you remain here. If I get taken off the case it will all be out of my hands.’

  He stared at his brother’s bent head. ‘Mickey? Did you hear what I said?’

  All Mickey could manage in response was a disinterested shrug.

  Seeing his attempts to provide good cheer come to nothing, Rafferty abandoned the effort and dished up the meal. He had hoped some hot food in his brother’s stomach would help warm his body and his spirit and make him more receptive, but Mickey just picked at his food, pushing it around his plate till it got cold .

  Rafferty, needing food to give him the stamina necessary to address all his current problems, cleared the plate, wiping it clean with naan bread. He finished his meal, only then did he realise that his brother had stirred sufficiently from his listlessness to have come to a conclusion of his own.

  He sat opposite Rafferty at the rickety table, his expression set. Rafferty asked, ‘What’s on your mind?’ He feared he already knew the answer.

  Mickey’s next words told him he was right.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, JAR. Maybe I should give myself up, or perhaps it would look better if you were to take me in? The longer I skulk in this rat trap of a caravan, the more guilty I look — the more guilty we both look. Could I be any more miserable in a cell than I am here?’

  ‘You could, believe me,’ Rafferty told him vehemently. ‘Take my word for it. Maybe if you’d reported Seward’s death when you found him, things would be different, but since you didn’t—’

  Guilt made him break off at this point. Would his brother have come forward even after he had left the scene of the murder if Rafferty hadn’t hustled him away from his flat? Rafferty wished he could be sure of the reason why he had persuaded Mickey to allow himself to be stashed in this grim caravan. Had it been for his brother’s sake, or his own? A brother as the main suspect in a murder investigation was, as he silently admitted, likely to do little to enhanc
e his career.

  At least Mickey didn’t start throwing accusations about, which was just as well, as Rafferty’s conscience was doing a good enough job on its own.

  In a final throw of the dice of good cheer, he tempted Mickey’s curiosity. ‘Know what strikes me about this case?’

  Mickey barely managed another half-hearted shrug in response, but Rafferty told him anyway.

  ‘What strikes me is that you’ve been set up.’ Now he had Mickey’s attention. ‘The more I’ve thought about this case, and the unlikelihood of your receiving an invitation to his civic shindig from Rufus Seward, the more I’ve come to believe it. Let’s face it, you’ve been as well-framed as the Mona Lisa. Think about it,’ he invited Mickey. ‘You get an invite to a swanky do from a bloke you hate, one who wouldn’t have given you the time of day when he was alive; you arrive to find the host skewered like a lamb kebab. Then you leg it, leaving your prints behind and three people conveniently able to provide us with your description. The whole thing stinks worse than a week-old corpse.’

  At least his observations seemed to have stirred Mickey from his lethargy. Now he was actually sitting up and paying attention.

  ‘You said you received a note with the invitation.’ Rafferty, suspecting that Mickey hadn’t told the complete — or indeed any — of the truth about this conveniently burned note, questioned him further. ‘Tell me what it said again?’

  Mickey reddened and his lips thinned to a stubborn line of reluctance.

  But Rafferty wasn’t about to let it go. ‘Never mind being coy. If your ID’s discovered, you’re well-placed to get charged with murder. It’s not as if you’ll be able to hide out here indefinitely.’ Not at the extortionate price of two hundred and fifty smackers a week that Algy Edwards was charging, he wouldn’t. ‘You’ve got a motive. You had the opportunity. Who’s to say you didn’t also bring the means to kill him with you? You’re placed at the scene, bro, or it’s likely you soon will be when someone comes out of the woodwork and identifies you, so come on, out with it. What did that note say? And never mind that “let’s be friends” crap you told me before.’