By the next day, they'd managed to turn up nothing on the cab firms and the hospital staff were extremely vague about precisely when Miss Parry had picked up her car, but that was about par for the course, Rafferty reflected wearily.
None of the staff, or those patients whom they'd so far spoken to, had admitted to knowing Linda, either. Nor, at the hospital or anywhere else, had anyone identified the girl in the pub from Smythe's photo fit—at least, they hadn't identified her to Rafferty, whatever they might have suspected privately, and he wasn't hopeful that anyone would.
That was why, when the telephone rang, he anticipated only further failures, especially when he heard Llewellyn's voice on the other end.
But incredibly, for once, the Welshman had a result for him. It brought about a complete revival of Rafferty's optimism. At last, someone from the hospital had recognised the photo-fit of the girl in the pub.
'Keep her there,' Rafferty ordered ebulliently. 'I'm on my way.'
'But Sir, I think I should warn—'
'Not now, Llewellyn. Whatever it is will keep. I'll get there as fast as I can.' Rafferty grinned, dropped the phone on its rest and made for the door. No doubt, Llewellyn was worried about his precious car and imagining the squeal of brakes and the smell of burning rubber as Rafferty tore through the miles separating them. Well, he'd have to bear it as best he could. This might be the breakthrough they'd been looking for and he wasn't going to waste any more precious time pandering to Llewellyn's mechanical sensitivities.
God knew they needed a breakthrough, because ironically, although they were overloaded with suspects, they had no firm evidence against any of them. The latest news might make all the difference.
Eagerly Rafferty made his way through the empty passages and pushed open the door of their temporary office. He stopped short when he saw the woman with Llewellyn and shot his sergeant a reproachful glance. Was this the witness in whom he'd placed such hope? he wondered incredulously.
She must be eighty if she was a day, he guessed. Dim, rheumy blue eyes peered vaguely out at him from a mass of wrinkles and her head nodded continually on her thin neck. It seemed likely she'd have difficulty remembering her own name, much less anyone else's.
Rafferty's eyes swivelled to the right, and he frowned. Nurse Wright sat silently by the door, while her charge was interviewed, as though she didn't trust them not to browbeat the old lady. She needn't think she was going to listen in, Rafferty vowed. Her behaviour over the missing note had already irritated him and he wasn't inclined to conduct the interview with her listening in.
'Please wait outside, Nurse,' he said sharply. 'Llewellyn, escort Nurse Wright to that little waiting room we've arranged and then come back. Sergeant Llewellyn will call you when we're finished, Nurse.'
Nurse Wright opened her mouth as if to protest, but after one look at Rafferty's implacable expression, she shut it again. She stopped only long enough to direct a dirty look in his direction, before she flounced out.
When Llewellyn returned, he nodded at Rafferty to confirm the nurse was safely ensconced on the other side of the bolted door. Turning to the old lady, Rafferty swallowed his disappointment and smiled as Llewellyn introduced them.
She inclined her head in a gesture meant to be gracious, but there was more of pathos than regality in the movement and it touched a nerve of memory in Rafferty that ensured his voice was gentle. 'It's very good of you to come and see us, Mrs. Devine.'
'That's quite all right, young man. Only I do hope it won't take long. Only, you see, my daughter's coming to see me today. She always comes to tea on a Friday,' she told him. 'Four o'clock prompt. Never misses. And I do want to make sure everything's perfect.' With a glance at the door, she confided in a loud whisper, 'It isn't always, you know.'
'Please don't worry, Mrs. Devine. This will only take a few minutes.' He pulled a chair up and sat beside her. 'Now, perhaps you could start by telling me when was the last time you saw her?'
The question seemed to trouble her a great deal. The smile faded to be replaced by a worried look, as though she had been found out in some deception. Her head shook more agitatedly than before and her eyes filled with the easy tears of the very old.
'Take your time, Ma'am.' Moved by compassion, Rafferty spoke in comforting tones, as Llewellyn, clearly embarrassed, shuffled his feet. The old lady's behaviour seemed to make the Welshman uncomfortable, but Rafferty was used to the very old.
Hadn't his grandparents ended their lives in the cramped Rafferty home? Many a time as a teenager, he had spoon-fed his grandmother her meals, wiping the dribbled food and saliva with a cloth; many a time, too, he'd comforted her when she'd wet her bed and cried befuddled tears from an indistinct feeling of shame.
Then his tenderness had sprung from a wealth of fond memories of childhood when his Gran had gamely bowled to his fantasy Colin Cowdrey batting. She hadn't been half a bad bowler either, he remembered.
It was those fond memories that now served to remind him that Mrs. Devine, too, was maybe somebody's loved granny and patiently, he attempted to rekindle her recollection. 'Perhaps it was here in Elmhurst?' he suggested gently.
Llewellyn made an attempt to overcome his own discomfort. 'You said you met her in London,' he prompted, in the loud tones some people use to the aged, as if they are all hard of hearing.
Rafferty could see comprehension and something like relief fight their way through Mrs. Devine's clouded brain and he stifled a grin as she directed a look of scorn at Llewellyn.
'I didn't think you meant her,' she informed him tartly.
For a few seconds, intelligence gleamed out of the rheumy eyes; the nodding head stilled, and Rafferty caught a glimpse of the woman she must once have been, before old age had caged her sharp mind in a fog. He bet she'd been a bit of a tartar; the sort unwilling to suffer fools at all, never mind gladly. As Llewellyn had just discovered.
'I thought you were talking about my daughter.' She gave Rafferty a coy glance. 'Are you married, young man?'
'No Ma'am.' Not any more, thank God, he thought.
'Then you must come and take tea with us. With my daughter and myself. You'll like her. She's such a thoughtful girl.'
'That's kind of you, Mrs. Devine. Perhaps another time, when I'm not so busy?' He took the photo-fit from Llewellyn. 'I understand you recognised the girl in this picture?'
Mrs. Devine's nose wrinkled faintly. 'Oh her. That's Miranda...Miranda... I can't recall her other name. I used to see her regularly at Dr. Melville-Briggs's London consulting-rooms, before, before—' She broke off.
Before her family had had her put away, Rafferty concluded.
Her expression was anxious, as though she realised deep within her that there had been a time when she had been very different. The realisation clearly upset her and although, not surprisingly, she was reluctant to bring past and remembered reality into her present unhappy situation, somehow, she gathered a tattered dignity about her and went on, quite lucidly.
'I had a weekly appointment and she saw Dr. Melville-Briggs after me, which I thought a little strange as I always asked for the latest appointment and by the time my consultations finished, the staff had left. I often suffered from giddiness and used to retire to the ladies' room till I felt more composed and generally, I'd find this Miranda lurking in there, quite furtively, as though she didn't want anyone to see her. Very odd it was. She wasn't a very pleasant young woman. On the few occasions I tried to engage her in conversation, she was unpleasant, really quite rude, in fact. So unnecessary.' She looked distressed for a moment as though the memory was particularly unpleasant and etched forever in her mind. 'I recall her eyes glittering at me quite furiously as though I had no right to be there.' She handed the picture back with a look of distaste and, rising unsteadily to her feet, made for the door.
'Just a moment, Mrs. Devine. Llewellyn ask Nurse Wright to come back, please.'
Nurse Wright returned just in time to hear Mrs. Devine repeat her invitation to Rafferty. For some reason it made her smirk.
'I'll expect you for tea with my daughter next Friday then, young man. At four o'clock. Anyone will direct you.'
'I'll look forward to it, Mrs. Devine.'
The nurse hovered in the doorway as though torn between Rafferty and her charge. Rafferty won. 'You don't want to believe everything Mrs. Devine says, you know,' she advised sharply. 'She wanders in her mind.'
Rafferty's mind did a little wandering too, to the interesting question of why she should seek to convince him that the old lady was unreliable as a witness. 'Her mind seemed sharp enough to me,' he remarked tautly.
The nurse gave a derisive smile. 'You think so? She invited you to take tea with her daughter, Inspector, but I wouldn't bother turning up next week if I were you. She hasn't seen her daughter once in the nine months that I've worked here. The visits are as much fantasy as whatever she dragged you over here to listen to. She's probably seen you about the hospital and wanted to look you over to decide if you were suitable husband material for her daughter. Match-making is one of her obsessions, unfortunately.’ Nurse Wright grimaced. 'I suppose she'll be ringing up caterers next to arrange the wedding. She did that last year when one of the doctors took her fancy. We had the devil of a job convincing the firm that the wedding was all in her mind. So you see, you can take whatever she told you with a large pinch of salt.'
'I'll bear it in mind,' he told her dryly, reluctant to let the nurse have the satisfaction of the last word. 'Though she seemed lucid enough to me. The bit about the daughter was wishful thinking – dreaming – we all do it. But the other part seemed real enough. She didn't particularly want to remember—' He grinned teasingly at the nurse's avid look, 'what she told us. You see the difference?'
She gave him a withering look as though to say, "Not another amateur psychologist?" Then she shrugged and remarked tartly. 'Believe what you like, Inspector. Only I still wouldn't bother turning up for tea next week. She'll have forgotten all about you and it by four o'clock today, never mind next Friday.'
'Perhaps. But if Mrs. Devine remembers anything else, I want you to tell me.'
The nurse looked as if she would like to tell him what he could do with his wants and her attitude angered him. 'One girl has been murdered,' he reminded her sternly. 'Information can be dangerous. It's better passed on to the police. I'd like you to remember that.'
'But you've arrested Simon Smythe for the murder. I hardly think—'
'Dr. Smythe has not been charged with murder,' he told her with quiet satisfaction. 'Nor do I anticipate that he will be.'
Nurse Wright's mouth dropped open in a perfect "O" of surprise. 'But Gilbert told me he saw him being driven off to the police-station. He hadn't come back to the hospital since and Gilbert said—'
'Never mind what Gilbert said,' Rafferty snapped. 'You might tell Gilbert that I said that if he's not careful someone might just sue him for slander.'
The nurse nodded quickly and shut the door behind her, no doubt eager to pass on the latest news about Smythe.
Rafferty went over their latest information. Smartly-dressed and nicely-spoken was how the landlord had described the girl in the pub, something of a looker, too, he understood. Smythe had suggested she had been waiting for someone. Mrs. Devine had identified Smythe's identikit picture as this Miranda; could she be the same girl who had given Nurse Wright the note for Melville-Briggs?
She certainly sounded the type who might appeal to the doctor and it seemed she'd made a point of seeing him very privately. If she was this Miranda, presumably she had been hanging around the scruffy neighbourhood pub waiting for him, not realising that he was out on the town. It seemed an unlikely venue for the self-important Sir Anthony. Even if he'd been available, Rafferty couldn't imagine him being willing to rub shoulders with the celebrating darts players.
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. The Welshman had 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 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 so graphically described by Gilbert, would be likely to have any doings with a prostitute, leastways, not a female one. 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, only too aware how easily the supercilious doctor made his hackles rise.
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' 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 nothing in the way of more information, and no-one calling herself Miranda had so far come forward.
Too late, he realised 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; its 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 ever 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 Simon Smythe, here was another member of his staff unlikely to find another suitable job. She was trapped as surely as 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 the necessity of this corroboration, her reaction surprised him.
'Surely that's not necessary?' Her voice suddenly sharp, she added, 'you don't imagine that I—that a woman would attack a young girl in such a brutal fashion, Inspector? Especially as the papers said she was a prostitute.'
In his experience, anything was possible and Sam Dally had said a woman could have murdered the girl. Mary Galvin came over as a woman of strong passions behind that calm exterior—certainly capable of killing if the motive was strong enough.
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 interested him. He was about to question her further when 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 smug voice practically purred in Rafferty’s ears; an anticipatory tingle tickled his spine. It seemed he might have been lucky and old Tony hadn't heard the latest on Smythe. The beginnings of a grin added to what Llewellyn would probably call a triumvirate of pleasure. Four syllables. God, he was getting good at this wordy lark. He’d be spouting Latin next. Or perhaps that was Latin. Just don’t ask Llewellyn, Rafferty reminded himself. Or you’ll get a lecture. In Greek, probably.
'Show them in at once,’ Sir Anthony commanded. ‘We mustn’t keep such diligent officers waiting.’
‘Seconded,’ Rafferty muttered. ‘Lead me to the Pleasure Dome.’
‘And Mrs Galvin, I don't want to be disturbed, so keep back all calls. Oh, and, I'm sure they'd like some coffee.'
Got that wrong.