CHAPTER FIVE

Llewellyn looked up from his study of the Hospital Yearbook, which Mrs.Galvin had so obligingly lent them, as Rafferty entered their temporary office the next morning and flung himself into a chair. 'Still no sign of the murder weapon?' he questioned Llewellyn.

Llewellyn shook his head. 'They should finish searching the hospital and its grounds today. Has Dr. Dally been able to give you any idea what the weapon might be?'

'Hasn't a clue.' Rafferty pulled a face. 'Won't admit it, of course. I don't suppose any blood-soaked clothes have shown up, either?'

Llewellyn shook his head again. 'And we’re still waiting for any match on the fingerprints. No-one’s had time to check them yet. Like us, they’re short-staffed. Fraser said he'll ring back if they come up with anything.'

Rafferty nodded. 'Perhaps I should ask my old ma to light a few candles for us? We'll need all the help we can get to solve this crime if we can't even discover who the victim was. You'd think someone would have missed her by now.'

Llewellyn tapped lean fingers on the book lying open on the desk in front of him. 'The Holbrook Clinic, that Dr. Melville-Briggs mentioned, Sir, it's only about three miles away.'

Rafferty grunted. 'I know. I asked Gilbert. But never mind that for now. Whittaker isn't going anywhere. If he intended to, he'd have gone by now and he hasn't. I checked.' He got up restlessly. 'Get on to the station. I want more men up here. I don't care how many officers you have to drag off leave. I want those clothes and the weapon found.'

After Llewellyn had organised the extra manpower, his probing dark eyes studied Rafferty. 'Do you really think there's anything in this professional jealousy theory of Dr. Melville-Briggs's, Sir?'

Llewellyn's voice sounded doubtful and, sensing an unspoken criticism, Rafferty frowned. Aware that he was being over-sensitive, but unable to stop himself, he took a high moral tone. 'An experienced policeman keeps an open mind, Sergeant,' he replied loftily. 'There certainly seems to be a lot of bad feeling between the two men. According to Gilbert, they nearly came to blows a month ago, apart from their disagreement on the night of the dinner. Seems Whittaker accused Melville-Briggs of spreading malicious rumours about him. Gilbert swears Whittaker hadn't obtained a key to the side-gate from him, but he did drop a heavy hint that Miss Gwendoline Parry, the Administrator here, is rather sweet on Whittaker and she has a key. She's on leave till Tuesday. She'll keep. We've plenty to occupy us till her return.'

The phone rang just then. Rafferty snatched it up, hoping there might be some good news at last. A delighted grin split his face as he scribbled a few quick notes on the scrap pad in front of him. 'Yes, yes, I've got that. Thanks. Thanks very much.' He replaced the receiver slowly, as though savouring the moment, and gave Llewellyn an elliptical glance.

'Good news, Taff.' The use of the nickname was quite deliberate. As he had guessed, the Welshman didn't take kindly to it—well; he didn't take kindly to being thought of as an ignorant Mick. Maybe Llewellyn would take the hint and stop acting so damn superior. Rafferty tilted his chair back at a dangerous angle, and challenged, 'I bet you a pound to a pinch of shit that this'll bring a smile to that mournful Welsh mug of yours.'

Llewellyn merely murmured, 'Oh?' before issuing a cautious warning, 'I wouldn't tip your seat back like that, Sir. These old hospital chairs aren't up to such rough treatment.'

Rafferty waved the caution aside. 'That was Fraser on the phone. He's matched the prints, so ma won't have to light those candles after all. The victim's identity will point us to the man who killed her. It's bound to.'

Llewellyn's expression didn't alter, but his laconic reply succeeded in wiping the smile off Rafferty's face. 'I wouldn't be so sure. Identifying a victim does not a murder solve.'

Rafferty scowled and brought all four legs of his chair back to earth with a crash. The crack of splintered wood proved Llewellyn's forebodings correct. Rafferty landed in an undignified heap on the floor as what was left of the chair collapsed under him.

A faint smile took fleeting possession of Llewellyn's features, and he murmured softly, '”Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a f—“'

'Oh shut up!' Rafferty retorted childishly. Bloody sanctimonious know-all, he silently cursed his sergeant. He got up gingerly. The legs of the chair had parted company with the seat—permanently by the look of it. He pushed the evidence of his vandalism into the adjoining lumber-room and shut the door on it. Not that Dr. Melville-Briggs was likely to show his face down here, but you never knew. It would be just like him to send in a bill for the damage. Rafferty thrust his hands into his pockets, and demanded belligerently, 'Don't you ever look on the bright side?'

Llewellyn gave a tiny shrug. 'I don't believe in courting disappointment.’ He paused. ‘There is one thing I don't understand though.'

'Only one? You surprise me. And what might that be?'

'Why you assume the murderer was male.'

Rafferty hadn't assumed any such thing, the use of the male pronoun had just seemed the most obvious in the circumstances, but now he felt stung to defend his choice. 'Elementary, my dear Llewellyn,' he replied loftily, determined to regain the advantage which he had so abysmally lost. 'The victim, Linda Wilks, was on file for prostitution.'

Just then, he heard a faint shuffling noise outside the door. He put his finger to his lips, crept to the door and quickly hauled it open. Gilbert was standing there with a tea-tray. Startled, he nearly dropped the lot.

'What do you want to go and do that for?' he complained. 'Gave me the fright of me life.'

Rafferty's eyes narrowed. 'Have you been listening?' He wouldn't put it past him. Perhaps that was why Dr. Melville-Briggs hadn't sacked him yet. Men like Gilbert had their uses.

Gilbert got on his high horse. 'I've got better things to do with me time. Mrs. Galvin thought you'd want tea, and asked me if I'd be good enough to oblige.' He sniffed. 'But I shan't bother again.'

Rafferty took the tea-tray. 'Thank you, Gilbert.' He stood pointedly in the doorway, waiting for the porter to go. 'Was there anything else?' he asked.

Grumbling to himself, Gilbert took the hint.

'We ought to get a key to that outside door, Sir,' Llewellyn suggested quietly. 'We don't want him snooping around.'

'I'm aware of that, Sergeant,' Rafferty replied tartly. 'Unlike you, I'm also aware that Gilbert's likely to have duplicates to all the keys in the place. It's a bolt we need.' There was one on the inside door, he noticed. He'd better bring a drill and screwdriver in with him tomorrow and move the bolt to the outside door if they didn't want the entire staff to be privy to their discoveries. He slammed the door and set the tray down on the table. 'You can be mother. Now,' hooking his foot beneath the front rung of another chair, he dragged it towards him and sat down. 'Where was I?' he asked.

'You were explaining why you think the murderer is a man, Sir,' replied Llewellyn expressionlessly as he handed him his tea.

'So I was.' Rafferty laced his fingers behind his head and assumed his most nonchalant pose, wishing he hadn't started this conversation as Llewellyn could be relied upon to pinpoint any flaws in his hastily-constructed theory. 'How likely is it that a London prossie would come all the way out to deepest Elmhurst to see a woman?'

Llewellyn replied coolly, 'More likely, I would have thought, than coming all the way out here for just one customer.'

'Unless he could pay well enough to make it worth her while,' Rafferty countered swiftly. Which ability, in his book, put Melville-Briggs back as odds-on favourite.

He was savouring this thought along with the hot, sweet tea, when Llewellyn, true to form, spoiled the flavour of both. 'High-class then, was she, Sir?'

'Not exactly, no,' Rafferty replied. He regretted his desire to put his sergeant in the wrong. He might have known that Llewellyn would immediately put his finger on the weak spot in his argument. It was probably his university education. Resentfully, Rafferty was forced to concede that his theory might have a few holes in it. Because Linda Wilks had been far from high class if the police at Streatham were to be believed.

Although he accepted that it was a bit early to jump to conclusions, Llewellyn's criticisms made him reluctant to wave goodbye to his conjectures entirely. Particularly if there was a chance of involving his favourite medical man in a juicy murder trial. The starring role in such a case would take the satin finish from Melville-Briggs's smoothly-emulsioned mug with all the efficiency of a blow-torch. It would even be worth suffering Llewellyn's scepticism to see that.

Aware that his own personal feelings ought not to come into it, yet determined not to let his sergeant get the better of him entirely, Rafferty added, 'Let's just say she was an obliging sort of girl – went in for the kind of parlour games that stimulate jaded sexual appetites – whips, chains, that sort of thing. Saucy outfits too, apparently. When Streatham nick picked her up last time, she claimed she was an actress.'

He snorted. 'A likely story. The only acting she did was when she played Madam Whiplash for a paying customer. Fancy a guess as to who the customer might be?'

Llewellyn didn't take him up on his offer.

'Who do we know who's got a nice cosy flat, right on site? Whose sexual appetites – according to friend Gilbert – have had a surfeit of sweeties? Who's high-powered enough to enjoy the titillation of a little role reversal? The great, the greedy, the goose-egg gatherer himself, that saviour of womankind, Dr. Anthony Melville-Briggs, that's who. No wonder he tried to dump our suspicions elsewhere. It's well known that the rich are a weird lot where sex is concerned. Their goings-on swamp the pages of the Sunday tabloids every week. Even you must have read about Madam Cyn from Streatham, the luncheon vouchers bordello queen.'

Llewellyn looked down his long nose at the suggestion. 'I make a point of avoiding such sordid sensationalism.'

You would, thought Rafferty, as he murmured, 'That's rather a pity. I've always thought a policeman should keep up with the scandal sheets. All in the line of duty, of course,' he added. 'Call it a ‘getting to know’ our future customers exercise, if you like. Anyway, Madam Cyn's main business came from the intellectual type's fancy for "correction".' Rafferty eyed Llewellyn mischievously as he got the dig in. 'Same sort of line as Linda Wilks.' He grinned. 'Perhaps the good doctor likes to be tied up by a bit of rough trade occasionally and smacked on his plump, pink behind?'

'Aren't you being a trifle melodramatic, Sir?' Llewellyn questioned deflatingly. 'We've only just discovered the victim's identity. It might be advisable to find out first if there was any connection between them before jumping to hasty conclusions based on suppositions and hearsay. Besides, we've still got the rest of the skeleton staff to interview yet. We can't begin to settle on a suspect until we've got an overall picture.'

Rafferty sighed. Trust Llewellyn to want to go by the book. Rafferty had always found it made a case much more interesting if he ignored the book. There was nothing wrong with a bit of good, dirty speculation, he told himself. As far as he was concerned, he'd be delighted if old smarmy-pants proved to be a mass of nasty perversions, and a murderer to boot, friend of the Chief Constable or not. If he was their man, Rafferty wouldn't allow such a consideration to prevent him making the arrest. Besides, the CC would be pretty quick to distance himself from the doctor if he was the culprit, so Rafferty's job should be safe enough.

He couldn't resist teasing Llewellyn a little more. 'Perhaps she decided to up her rates and he wasn't keen. I like it,' he added decisively as the grin stretched even further.

Of course, Llewellyn wiped the grin off his face with his usual efficiency. 'I doubt the Chief Constable would—not without some proof and so far there isn't any.'

'Not yet,' Rafferty conceded. 'But as you so rightly pointed out, we haven't finished interviewing yet. Lady Evelyn didn't give her husband the fool-proof alibi he probably hoped for. Perhaps the others at that convention won't either.'

Like the voice of conscience, Llewellyn immediately piped up. 'Sam Dally was there. And he didn't remark on any obvious absences on the part of Dr. Melville-Briggs. He was the Chair, don't forget. He'd be sure to be missed.'

Rafferty scowled. He'd forgotten that Sam Dally had mentioned his prime suspect headed the committee responsible for organising the annual dinner, and probably responsible for making sure that everyone, especially himself, had the whale of a time. No wonder Melville-Briggs had been so unlovable yesterday morning. He'd probably been nursing a hangover as formidable as Rafferty's own. He could almost like the man for that, almost, but not quite. 'It's not far to drive from The George,' he pointed out. 'He could still have nipped out during the evening, driven back here, killed the girl and nipped back. I imagine there was a large crowd. Nothing could be easier than to disappear for half an hour or so, especially once the dinner was over and he started to mingle.'

But apparently, Llewellyn had pumped Sam Dally a little more, and now he wasted no more time in giving Rafferty the rest of the good news. Apparently, the role of chairman called for a lot of speechifying and prize-giving; Dr. Melville-Briggs had been centre-stage during the greater part of the evening, no doubt holding forth on his favourite topic—himself, thought Rafferty begrudgingly. And as Llewellyn had said, even Sam hadn't been able to recall any great gaps in his presence.

With regret, Rafferty put his suspicions of Melville-Briggs temporarily aside. He couldn't even console himself with his madman theory. It seemed the pyjama-clad denouncer of women had several strange habits, one of which consisted of covering his hands with blood, any blood, he wasn't particular. Yesterday morning, before the nurse could stop him, he had dashed out of the day room and entered the kitchen where he had smeared his hands with blood from a large joint of beef which was just about to go in the oven.

'Did you check with Charge Nurse Allward about the possibility of the rest of the patients being able to get out?'

Llewellyn nodded. 'Nothing there. He told me that either himself or the little Filipino girl, Staff Nurse Estoce sat at the end of the bedroom block, right by the locked door all night. No matter how devious they might be, none of the patients could get out without being seen. The windows can't be opened by the patients. I haven't yet spoken to the Staff Nurse, but I imagine she'll confirm what Allward said.'

Disappointed, Rafferty nodded and bent back to his lists. There was no way they were going to avoid checking out everyone's movements. 'Right,' he said. 'Let's get on. We'll have Friday night's duty doctor in, Llewellyn. Dr. Simon Smythe. Round him up, there's a good man.'

Left alone, Rafferty leaned back in his chair and gazed at the small square of blue sky visible through the window. Someone had opened the side gate and let the girl in, presumably, someone who was expecting her and, in spite of Llewellyn putting the dampers on his theory, he still thought it most likely to have been a man that the girl had come to see.

All right, he admitted, Sam had said that a woman could have killed the girl, but it didn't seem a woman's crime somehow. It would, he was now convinced, turn out to be a relatively simple case. Some on-duty member of staff had organised Linda's visit as a bit of light relief that had gone badly wrong and, frightened by what he'd done, he'd panicked and smashed her face, perhaps hoping to divert suspicion to one of the more violent patients. Though, he mused, if so, surely he'd have had the wit to arrange an escape?

Just then Llewellyn opened the door and ushered Simon Smythe into the room. A long and bony man, Dr. Smythe looked to be in his late twenties. His old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses seemed too heavy and rather overwhelmed his face. Already, he'd lost most of his blond hair; what remained was stretched lankly across as much of his scalp as it could cover.

Rafferty summoned a smile. 'Thank you for coming so promptly, Doctor. Won't you sit down?' Smythe did so, and Rafferty sat companionably beside him on the desk, while Llewellyn and his notebook took the other chair. 'Now, then, Doctor, as you probably know, we're interviewing all the staff and patients about the murder.' Smythe nodded. 'I understand you were duty doctor on Friday night?'

'Yes, yes, that's right.' Smythe's watery eyes looked quickly at Rafferty and away again. 'I—I generally am at holiday times like this.' A tinge of resentment crept into his voice. 'Dr. Melville-Briggs likes to get away, but even when he's in the flat here, he becomes very annoyed if I disturb him.'

Understandably, if he was "entertaining", thought Rafferty. 'I see. So, you were the only doctor on the premises?'

Smythe nodded quickly, as though he would prefer to deny it. His hands began to tremble slightly; he tucked them in the pockets of his white coat out of sight and cleared his throat. It sounded very loud in the small and otherwise silent room. Its echo seemed to agitate him.

'It must be a great responsibility.' It was clear he’d touched a raw nerve, as Smythe immediately launched into a string of complaints.

'It is. A great responsibility, Inspector.' Rafferty nodded sympathetically as Smythe began to pour out his grievances 'Of course, in an emergency I can always contact Dr. Melville-Briggs, but,' his mouth turned down like a sulky child's, 'he doesn't always agree what constitutes an emergency. He can become quite abusive if one disturbs him unnecessarily.'

'Bosses aren't always very understanding, Sir,' he commiserated. A picture of Superintendent Bradley in full hectoring mode came into his mind and he added quietly, 'It's much the same everywhere—the way of the world.'

Smythe gave a slow nod, as if Rafferty had revealed a great truth and for a few moments they both pondered the extent of his profundity.

Judging the moment propitious to press on, Rafferty asked quietly, 'Can you remember anything unusual about that night, Sir? Anything at all?'

Smythe hesitated and then shook his head. 'No. It was a quiet night. That's why—' He broke off and looked guiltily at Rafferty.

'You were saying, Sir?'

'Nothing. Really.' Smythe clamped his lips tightly together as though scared he might say more than he intended. 'It, it's just that I still can't quite believe it. That poor girl must have been murdered while I was watching the late film.'

Strange, thought Rafferty, as far as he knew, the approximate time of death hadn't been revealed. However for the moment he didn't pursue the point. He gazed thoughtfully at Smythe, and replied, 'She died quickly. It's not as though you could have done anything to help her.'

Smythe brightened at this. 'You're right, of course. I couldn't have helped her, even if...' His voice fumbled into silence once more.

'Just a few more questions. When you're on call, I imagine you're expected to stay on the premises?'

Smythe gave another slow nod. His gaze slid away again.

Curious that he should behave as guiltily as a shop-girl caught with her hand in the till, but confident that he would winkle his secret out of him sooner rather than later, Rafferty contented himself with continuing the interview rather than pursuing the point. 'And when you're on call, where would you usually be?'

'I'd be either in my office or the staff lounge. They're both in this building on the first floor,' he added helpfully, as Rafferty consulted the plan of the hospital which was open on the desk. 'I carry my bleep so I can always be contacted straight away, no matter where I am. It reaches several miles.'

'I see. And how long would you be on call?'

'From nine at night to seven in the morning. I was in my office when Gilbert found the body and came to get me.'

'So, you'd be available the entire night and either in your office or the lounge—is that correct?'

Smythe blinked owlishly, and then nodded.

Rafferty wondered if he had filled in part of the long night with bashing in Linda Wilks's head. He seemed the type who would need to turn to a prostitute for sexual gratification. Of course, he reflected, Smythe's odd behaviour mightn't have anything to do with the murder. A lot of nervy types worked themselves into a state when they were interviewed by the police.

After a few more questions, he terminated the interview. Smythe's eagerness to be gone was apparent, as was his dismay when Rafferty let him get as far as the door before he called him back, Columbo-style. 'Just as a matter of interest, Doctor. Does the name Linda Wilks mean anything to you?' If he had hoped to startle Smythe by the revelation that they knew the dead girl's name, it was a wasted effort. Perhaps Gilbert had already spread the word?

Smythe's red-rimmed eyes looked blankly back at him through the thick lenses. He shook his bony head vigorously, as though relieved he had been asked a question that held no fears for him. 'Should it?'

Rafferty smiled at him. 'Probably not.' If he had known the victim he mightn't have known her by that name. Vice girls commonly used several aliases in an attempt to keep one step ahead of the law. This time, Smythe made it safely through the door.