A Thrust to the Vitals

by Evans, Geraldine

  But, Rafferty thought, there was one, infallible way of finding out…

  Rafferty breezed into the station reception with a deceptively casual air and hailed Constable Bill Beard, who was propped behind the counter. Beard was something of an institution at the station. He had been there longer than anyone else on the strength. Luckily, he was an inveterate gossip. If anyone knew anything that Bradley would rather remain covered up, it was Bill.

  ‘How’s the crossword coming on?’ Rafferty asked as he nodded towards the Daily Mirror that he knew would be hidden beneath the counter.

  Beard raised his eyebrows. ‘Since when were you interested in my intellectual pursuits?’

  Wrong move. Beard had a natural antenna for sniffing out ulterior motives. Rafferty tried another tack. ‘No reason. Just looking for a bit of light relief from this murder inquiry. It’s turning out to be the very devil. The murder victim, Rufus Seward, seems to have made enemies going back to the Flood and beyond.’

  Beard nodded. ‘So I heard. Isn’t it your oppo Llewellyn who’s fond of saying that the past is the only dead thing that smells sweet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it. His bloody quotations get on my nerves. And he knows it. But he and his dreary homilies couldn’t be more wrong when it comes to Seward’s past. It has the stench of the sewer about it.’ So did his recent present, come to that. ‘With three ex-wives and various girlfriends, Seward didn’t stint himself in the bed-hopping department any more than he did so in his booze consumption or the making of mucho moolah. And to my mind, no one who didn’t inherit money, yet managed to get his mitts on as much of the stuff as Seward was reputed to have, didn’t do so without a few dodgy deals along the way.’

  Rafferty certainly felt it unlikely that Seward’s recent ennoblement had made of him a shiny bright knight fit for King Arthur’s fabled round table.

  Beard, clearly unable to resist the urge to show off his gossipy knowledge, leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘This Seward had a major run-in with the super once,’ he confided. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘I did hear something,’ Rafferty untruthfully avowed, hoping such claimed knowledge would further loosen Bill’s tongue. ‘But I never knew the entire tale,’ he confided encouragingly.

  For once, the busy station reception was quiet and free of demanding customers. Rafferty doubted it would last, so he was eager for Beard to divulge all before they were interrupted. He gave a start as, briefly, he heard a few boisterous shouts on the stairs. But the voices faded and he guessed that, rather than coming through the reception area, the owners of the voices were heading towards the rear exit and the car park. He waited, gripped by the fear they would barge into reception instead and put Bill off his gossip-sharing, until he heard the clatter of the rear door slamming shut. Then he relaxed and gazed enquiringly at Beard.

  With the departure of the boisterous brigade, and with peace once again restored, Beard propped his bulk even further forward and confided in a stage whisper, ‘Bradley came close to having to resign. Of course, this was years ago, before he rose so high. He’s long since put it behind him.’

  Had he, though? Rafferty wondered as he settled to hear the rest of the tale. Or had he brooded about it ever since?

  Beard adjusted his stout body even more comfortably on the counter, His stage whisper became stagier. ‘It was all to do with an arrest Bradley made when he was a lowly inspector like you.’

  Not so much of the ‘lowly, Rafferty thought indignantly. But for the greater good, he let it pass and urged Bill to continue.

  ‘He pursued the suspect like a rat up a drainpipe, even after the brass warned him off. My, but he must have had the bit between the teeth on that one because Bradley was never one to cross the bosses. He wasn’t deterred, not even when the evidence went missing — deliberately missing, some said, including Bradley himself. There was a right carry on over it; shouting matches and all sorts, when Bradley refused to drop it.

  ‘Anyway, this bloke that Bradley arrested — I forget his name — was a pal of this Seward who has just got himself murdered.’

  Careful not to make plain that it was all news to him, by now, Rafferty’s own antenna was all aquiver. ‘As I said,’ he airily confessed, ‘I forget the details. Refresh my memory.’

  Beard smiled a superior, knowing smile, but obliged Rafferty’s request. ‘Seward owned a big newspaper group. He used his editorials to kick up a right stink about this case involving his pal. This was before the brass got properly involved. It certainly concentrated their minds when Bradley’s name and that of the Essex force were dragged through the editorial mud.

  ‘Anyway, as I said, the brass ordered Bradley to drop the case, or else. He got close to choosing the “or else” option, but came to his senses in time. Of course Seward was well in with the brass glitterati, even then. Men like that go in for all this networking malarkey. His contacts meant he was able to fix it for his pal. Bradley was hauled before the brass and told to drop the case before they suspended him. He finally backed off and saw sense when the either or was put to him so bluntly. Even so, he came close to getting his card marked over it. It doesn’t do to go against the big boys. They have ways of getting their own back, as we know, when one of their own are threatened. Probably explains why, ever since, Bradley’s been such an arse-licker.’

  ‘Must be a bad memory for him,’ Rafferty thoughtfully commented.

  Beard nodded his grey head sagely. ‘Especially as the rumour was that he was in the right of it and Seward had not only arranged for the evidence against his friend to go missing, but also passed a sizeable backhander to the then superintendent to make sure the case died.’

  Beard stared steadily at him. ‘Rather a pity for you that the super wasn’t one of the guests at that shindig where Seward was killed.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Rafferty agreed. The fact that he and Bradley weren’t bosom buddies was well-known. Still it was good to know that word of Bradley’s attendance hadn’t got out, not even to the usually all-knowing Beard. That information could well turn out to be Mickey’s salvation. It would be foolhardy to squander it as a quid pro quo, even to the obligingly indiscreet Bill Beard.

  ‘Certainly couldn’t claim to lack a motive, the super, given his and Seward’s mutual past. And it’s not as if he’s a man to forget a grudge. As I said, it’s lucky for him he wasn’t there as a guest, given his rank and his love of expensive shindigs. Though, given their past, I can’t see him being willing to attend Seward’s party. Most likely, he’d have sent someone else in his place.’

  Rafferty nodded. That thought had occurred to him, too. So why hadn’t he? he wondered. ‘You’ve kept this business pretty close to your chest,’ Rafferty observed, just managing to avoid turning it into an accusation.

  ‘Have I?’ Beard asked, clearly trying for the ingenuous and missing by a country mile. Then he smiled. ‘What is it they say?’

  Rafferty shrugged. ‘God knows - I don’t. But I suppose you can tell me that as well?’

  Beard beamed at him cherubically. But this Essex cherub then tapped his nose knowingly. ‘Why, Lord love you, course I can. They say that knowledge is power, my old dear.’ He gazed straight-faced over the counter at Rafferty as he levered his bulk off the counter. Then he winked. ‘Just use it wisely, that’s all. I want no unnecessary fallout. And,’ Beard added, if anyone asks – you didn’t get any of this stuff from me.’

  Rafferty mulled over what he had just learned as he made his way back to his office. office. As Beard had said, Seward had owned several chains of regional newspapers, including the Elmhurst Echo. He still owned them and more, at the time of his death. No wonder his civic honour had received such extensive and fulsome coverage.

  It was clear that Bradley had undergone several very unpleasant weeks at the time of the war of attrition from Seward and his pals amongst the brass. It seemed likely that he still nursed a hefty grudge that his desired upward thrust in his police career might have been damag
ed because of it.

  This, to the ambitious, determinedly career-minded and hungry-for-good-publicity, Bradley, would have been far worse than Rafferty’s previously considered scenario of Seward possibly making a cuckold of him. It was certainly a treachery unlikely to be either forgiven or forgotten by Bradley.

  Which made his attendance at the reception even more intriguing.

  OK, it was well known that Bradley, as if he was a film star rather than a policeman, would have gone to the opening of the proverbial envelope, just to get his face in the papers. Given this propensity, it was possible that he had managed to swallow his grudge against Seward for a short while so as to indulge his ego.

  But even if that partly explained his presence, it didn’t preclude the possibility that Bradley had indulged rather more than his ego that night.

  Chapter Eight

  After what he had learned from Bradley himself as well as what Bill Beard had confided, Rafferty was curious to find out if the two security men at the hotel would support Bradley’s claims that a young blonde woman had been another late arrival at Seward’s party. Or, indeed, if anyone could back up his assertion about her entering Seward’s bedroom late on the night he was murdered.

  But, as with his questioning of both Bradley and Beard, these were conversations he preferred to remain confidential. So, before he left the station, Rafferty took the time to make sure that Llewellyn had a pile of statements to wrestle his way through and thus provide Rafferty with an excuse for leaving him behind.

  He thought he’d got away with it, but Llewellyn stopped him just as he reached his office door.

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling me about this case?’ he asked, so quietly that Rafferty almost didn’t hear the question — he wished. But, tempted as he was to ignore it, Rafferty knew better than to do so. If he did, it would only encourage Llewellyn to believe he was being kept in the dark about something, which was the last thing Rafferty wanted. Especially as it was true.

  Instead, Rafferty turned and directed a look of puzzlement towards his sergeant. ‘Something I’m not telling you?’ he repeated, careful not to overdo the air of injured innocence. Polite bafflement was the note to aim for. ‘How do you mean, exactly?’

  Llewellyn gazed at him so steadily that Rafferty almost gave in to the urge to indulge in some nervous fiddling — with his hair, his tie, the change in his pocket. He restrained this revealing urge with difficulty and waited for Llewellyn to respond.

  ‘It’s just that I get the feeling you’re shutting me out. And you keep vanishing. Each time, I’ve looked around the station, but haven’t been able to find you anywhere.’

  Rafferty tried a nonchalant laugh; it sounded strained even to his ears. ‘You just didn’t look hard enough, Daff. I was here. Where else would I be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Which is the reason I asked if you’re keeping something from me.’

  Nonchalance hadn’t worked, so Rafferty tried bombast. ‘Am I meant to be chained to my desk 24/7 on the off-chance that you might want to speak to me?’ he demanded. ‘Why didn’t you try my mobile?’

  ‘I did. It was switched off. I asked around and nobody else had seen you either.’

  ‘Checking up on me?’ Rafferty’s shrug made another attempt at nonchalance. ‘So, I locked myself in a cubicle in the bogs for a while. I had the trots.’

  ‘For two hours? Perhaps you should see a doctor? Though you certainly weren’t in the toilets when I checked.’

  Rafferty had had enough of this conversation. ‘What is this? he demanded. ‘The Spanish Inquisition?’ He ignored Llewellyn’s last comment and addressed the one in the middle. ‘And perhaps you’re the one who should see a doctor? A trick cyclist. You’re getting paranoid, man.’

  Llewellyn denied it. ‘It’s only paranoia when your obsessions aren’t true. When they are it’s called realism. Or truth as opposed to fantasy.’

  Rattled and cross, Rafferty opened the office door, threw a ‘You’re nuts,’ over his shoulder, and removed himself from the room as quickly as his size twelves would allow. God, he thought, as he headed along the corridor and made for the stairs at a run in case his questioner should decide to chase after him, Llewellyn turning inquisitor was all he needed. Haven’t I got enough to cope with without having to fend off my own sergeant’s suspicions? he muttered self-pityingly to himself.

  The two security guards, Jake Arthur and Andy Watling, both denied letting any mystery blonde visitor into the suite late on the evening of Seward’s party. They were so vehement about the matter that they insisted Rafferty look at the security tapes.

  Rafferty would have done this anyway, as a matter of routine, as soon as possible. Conscious of his need to try to keep his super’s presence at the party low-profile,, Rafferty, who had picked up Hanks and Tim Smales on his way out, set them the task of checking through the hotel’s earlier tapes of the evening. He kept for himself the task of checking the later ones; those that should feature the late-arriving Bradley and his wife, Mickey and the mysterious blonde that Bradley claimed to have seen.

  It was some time later, when Rafferty, in the security guards’ subterranean lair in the hotel, sat back, satisfied, after having viewed the final security tape. Because, of Bradley’s late-arriving blonde, there wasn’t a sign. Strangely, the only existence she seemed to have was in the super’s imagination.

  So why had he lied? And with a lie that was so easily disproved? Had he just panicked?

  It certainly seemed that way. Rafferty couldn’t help but wonder just how much Bradley must be sweating at the certain knowledge that his deception would be discovered. Unless he had something else to sweat about than just being found out in a clumsy deception? Such as murder. Given what Rafferty now knew about Bradley’s antipathy for Seward, the thought was one that refused to go away

  After they had finished checking out the security tapes, Rafferty sent Hanks and Smales back to the station, but before he followed them, he asked the security men to direct him to the maintenance department. The wood chisel that had removed Sir Rufus Seward from his wealthy, comfortable life, was a professional tool, as Mickey had said, rather than the cheap type available at DIY stores.

  The chisel hadn’t looked new, either. It could have been stolen from any carpenter’s workshop when the carpenter’s back was turned. He thought it worth checking out if the Elmhurst’s maintenance department was missing a chisel.

  Unfortunately, this line of thought proved inconclusive as Des Carpenter, the aptly named man responsible for basic maintenance, turned out to be a man after his own heart. When he knocked and entered, Rafferty saw, as his hopes sank, that there were tools everywhere. The workshop looked even more chaotic than Rafferty’s own office. But he asked anyway.

  Des Carpenter, after Rafferty had introduced himself and asked if the man was missing a wood chisel, simply scratched his head, shrugged and said, ‘Search me. I have people coming in here all the time when my back’s turned and helping themselves to stuff.’

  ‘Don’t you keep the door locked?’

  ‘I used to. But I‘d already lost my key and then I lost the spare and had to force the door open. I’ve never got around to replacing the lock. Wouldn’t make a lot of difference if I did as the other staff would only help themselves to the spare in the key cupboard.’

  ‘Could you check anyway?’ Rafferty asked.

  But, although Des did as he was bid, it was a half-hearted effort at best and even when he said that he didn’t think he was missing a chisel, the lack of conviction in his voice meant his claim was hardly conclusive.

  Rafferty thanked Carpenter and returned to the car park. Beneath overcast skies that matched his sombre mood, he drove back to the station to pick up Llewellyn for the next round of interviews.

  As he negotiated the busy roads filled with Christmas shoppers who darted dangerously through the traffic as some must-have bargain on the other side of the street took their eye, he pondered how he could best use the
discovery about the super’s deceit to Mickey’s advantage.

  In one way, on top of his earlier failure to come forward about his presence at the party, to have caught the super out in a second deception could provide welcome additional ammunition should he need it. But he knew it would have to be handled carefully, very carefully, if it wasn’t to blow up in his face.

  It was fortunate, from a time-saving point of view, that even though the three members of Seward’s staff who had attended the reception had now returned to their late employer’s Norfolk estate, most of the remaining suspects lived in or around Elmhurst itself.

  Samantha Harman, the party waitress, and Randy Rawlins, the barman, both lived in staff accommodation at the Elmhurst Hotel, which was the nearest, so as he pulled out of the station yard, a disconcertingly quiet Llewellyn beside him, Rafferty decided to begin the next round of questioning with them. And even if neither of them had had anything to do with Seward’s murder, it was possible they had noticed something, the significance of which they had perhaps not realised at the time. Hotel staff were trained to keep their eyes open and their wits about them, even if it was more to prevent petty pilfering by the guests rather than murder.

  They spoke to Samantha Harman first. But beyond confirming that Seward had been offensively rude to Rawlins, she was able to tell them little.

  ‘I was kept very busy,’ she explained. ‘It might have been a buffet reception, but you’d be surprised how many of these bigwig types still demand table service. Too up their own arses and used to being waited on hand and foot, some of them, to get off their fat backsides and serve themselves. I didn’t even get a chance to visit the bathroom during the earlier part of the evening.’

  ‘What about later? Say from around ten-thirty when Sir Rufus retired to his bedroom — did you leave the main reception room at all after that’