CHAPTER TWELVE

Sir Anthony positively beamed as they entered his office. 'I understand you've got some good news for me? I must say, I never thought...'

Diplomatically, he bit off whatever he had been going to say, but Rafferty guessed it would have been less than complimentary.

'Ahem, do sit down. 'It's a great relief that you've discovered the culprit,' Melville-Briggs went on. 'And so promptly. It's obvious that Smythe was the man, of course. He's just the type to need to turn to prostitutes for sexual gratification.'

Melville-Briggs appeared to have forgotten his slanderous accusations against Nathanial Whittaker, Rafferty noted with amusement, as the doctor continued smoothly. 'And although I appreciate your courtesy in keeping me personally informed, surely you should be at the station, interrogating him?'

Rafferty was grateful that his impetuosity hadn't met its deserved reward and he intended to get maximum enjoyment out of the situation. It wasn't often he got the chance to be one up on someone like Melville-Briggs. He allowed his face to register surprise and his voice to assume a lightly ironic, teasing tone, out of sheer devilment. 'I'm afraid you're a bit out of date, Sir Anthony. I assumed you'd have heard.'

'Heard?' Sir Anthony's face stopped beaming. 'Heard what? What are you talking about, Rafferty?'

'I didn’t arrest Dr Smythe. He was merely helping us with our inquiries. I imagine he'll be at home. If you want him.'

'What?' Sir Anthony leaned forward over the desk as though he was about to psychoanalyse him. 'Have you gone mad?'

'I don't believe so, Sir. Smythe was just unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all. He hasn't murdered anyone.'

Melville-Briggs made to open his mouth again, but the telephone buzzed. He snatched at it and practically snarled, 'I thought I told you not to put through any calls? Do I have to—?'

Mrs. Galvin must have said something soothing; something that jangled of cash, because instead of continuing to carp, he just said peremptorily, 'Oh, very well. Put her through.'

To Rafferty's amusement, when Sir Anthony next spoke there was no trace of irritation in his voice. It was apparent that when it came to well-heeled clients, he could be quite charming; a veritable fount of patience and solicitude.

'My dear Lady Harriet, how very nice to hear from you again. How was your holiday? Good. Good. So nice at this time of year, I’ve always found. No, no. Nothing at all to be alarmed about, I assure you. We all know how the press exaggerate... No, no, just some foolish girl who managed to get into the grounds. Probably turn out to be a lovers' tiff, nothing more. In fact—' He broke off and it was apparent that he'd been interrupted once again. It seemed that Lady Harriet was rather more astute than Melville-Briggs had thought. She seemed to find his explanation less than satisfactory, for he was forced to go on in this placatory vein for several minutes.

Although Rafferty still listened to the one-sided conversation, getting more of a kick out of it than his thankfully sleeping conscience would normally allow, he let his gaze wander round the room.

Not for Melville-Briggs the interview conducted in a drab and comfortless basement. Oh, how the other half live... The good doctor had decreed early in the case that if they wanted to see him, they would have to come to him. Rafferty concluded that he’d been so insistent because he had believed the splendour of his own office would the better impress on him that he was a man of wealth and influence—something Rafferty would rather forget. It was strange that a practising trick cyclist didn't realise that, to Rafferty, the opulent office acted more as a red rag to a bull than a reminder that respectful deference was the required response.

The spacious, first-floor room had presumably once been the drawing-room. It still had the original encircling cornice and panelled wainscot. The polished wood floor was covered with an Oriental carpet in rich golds and blues and, either side of the marble fireplace, two matching mahogany bookcases, the height of the ceiling, contained expensively-bound medical text-books. Enormous gilt mirrors decorated the walls and, whichever way he turned, Rafferty could see himself and Llewellyn reflected, over and over again. His own bemused expression so disconcerted him that he swivelled his head away, but not before noting that his thick auburn hair was badly in need of a cut.

Rafferty was put out to discover that, beside his well-groomed sergeant, he looked a bit of a scruff. The discovery disconcerted him even more and, determinedly, he concentrated his gaze on the window-facing wall behind the doctor's desk.

A veritable photographer's gallery of framed prints were on display there and he let his eyes take in the coloured photographs of the doctor with various members of the royal family, and others, where he posed with white-coated and presumably distinguished medical men. Perhaps, Rafferty reflected, he should be grateful Sir Anthony didn't have a large, colour picture of himself posed with the Chief Constable. Now that would have had good intimidation value.

An even more impressive array of medical qualifications was grouped together in the centre of the display. Rafferty squinted as he tried, without success, to read them. Surely they couldn't all be proper qualifications? Perhaps Melville-Briggs had bought some of the certificates as he'd tried to buy him? You could buy anything on the internet. Or so Llewellyn, his personal geek, had often told him. A man like Sir Anthony thought the entire world was for sale. Sadly, much of it was.

As he thought of Simon Smythe's pitiful collection of honours and memories, Rafferty felt a gush of fellow feeling. Unlike Sir Anthony, the poor sap couldn't even buy himself a much-needed bottle of whisky without the world tumbling about his ears.

He brought his full attention back to Sir Anthony's dulcet tones. By the time he had finished, even Rafferty was beginning to believe that the facts of the murder were just an exaggeration on the part of the gutter press.

However, this happy illusion lasted no longer than it took Melville-Briggs to wish the lady a pleasant adieu and place the phone on the desk with an exaggerated care; almost as if it was the lady herself. Or, more likely, her wallet. Reality then again took over from the delights of make-believe.

The telephone conversation had given Sir Anthony time to get his disappointment in perspective. He sat back in his chair, drummed his fingers testily on his desk.

The desk didn't suit the elegant proportions and restrained plaster-work of the room, Rafferty noted, unreasonably pleased that, beneath the surface sophistication, Sir Anthony's tastes reflected his Brummie origins.

Like Melville-Briggs, the desk was large and showy; seven feet long, its top was covered with maroon leather and around the edge, the mahogany was inlaid with a flamboyant quantity of what looked like gold-leaf. It was almost as though Melville-Briggs had determined to thrust his own forceful personality on the room.

Behind the desk, Sir Anthony sat in a high-backed, throne-like chair, from which he could look down on lesser mortals. Perhaps his more anxious patients approved of such an arrangement; they probably found such dominance comforting.

Rafferty didn’t; it merely made him keener to prick the ego on the throne. He set about it with a restrained gusto. 'Of course,' he remarked, 'in view of the news about Smythe, you'll understand that it's necessary to interview everyone again? Perhaps, Sir Anthony, you'd like to enlarge on your previous statement about your movements on the night of the murder?'

'Enlarge on my previous statement?' Melville-Briggs's glowered. 'What game are you playing, Rafferty? You've let a perfectly good suspect go. Now you're plunging round desperately trying to find a replacement. Well, I'm not it. And if you try to make me so, I'll create the biggest stink on either side of The Atlantic since Watergate.'

'Surely that wouldn't do the reputation of the hospital any good, Sir?' Rafferty remarked in a pseudo-comforting voice. 'Besides, it's hardly necessary. Can't we be civilised about this?'

'It's not very civilised to come in here and accuse—'

'No-one's accusing you of anything, Sir,' Llewellyn put in politely, with a pained glance at Rafferty. 'It's just that—'

Melville-Briggs ignored him and concentrated on the organ grinder.

Due deference and recognition at last, was Rafferty’s cynical thought. Bit late for that, old son.

'I didn't even know the girl.'

'That may be so, Sir,' Rafferty remarked, glad he'd managed to disturb Sir Anthony's equilibrium, 'but without investigating, we can hardly be sure of that. After all, it's common knowledge that you have many women friends. The victim, as far as we know, could have been one of them. You must see,' he added with an air of sweet reason, 'the necessity of investigating the possibility?'

'As I was at The George all night, it would appear the possibility is more of an impossibility,' he barked. 'I have a fool-proof alibi, Rafferty. You won't succeed in breaking it.'

'I expect you're right. But even fool-proof alibis have to be closely scrutinised, Sir.'

Melville-Briggs laid his hands flat on the desk and leant forward. 'If you doubt my word' – by the tone of voice, it was apparent that he thought the idea absurd – 'you can ask your own police surgeon, Dally. He was there.'

'I see. He was with you the entire night, was he, Sir?' Rafferty didn't bother to edit out the sarcasm, even though he knew it was unwise; if Melville-Briggs's alibi turned out to be as sound as he claimed, he would pay for it. We must find our pleasures where we may, he thought, as he crossed his fingers under the desk’s concealing magnificence.

'No, of course he wasn't with me all night.' Melville-Briggs's face was slowly becoming a marvellous match for the maroon leather of the desk. 'I don't like your tone, Rafferty. I don't like it at all.'

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 into 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. Mr Whittaker will 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. He selected the ones most likely to push the doctor into unwise disclosures. 'Let's say you were having an affair with the murder victim. We’re just surmising here, Sir,’ he quickly added before either Melville-Briggs or the ever-more pained-looking Llewellyn could get a word in. ‘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 and the grounds beyond it.

Melville-Briggs gave a derisive snort. 'Do you really believe that I was having an affair with this wretched little tart? And 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 gave his best Sphinx-like impression at Melville-Briggs's derision. Beside him, he heard Llewellyn give a heavy sigh, as if keen to establish some kind of Apartheid between himself and his superior’s lack of finesse. Rafferty scribbled a mental reminder about this for his ‘Hail fellow, well met’, moments.

Sir Anthony held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. 'My hands are clean, Rafferty.' He gazed down at them from his throne-like chair. 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, and that Llewellyn would be sure to rub it in, In f***ing Latin, Rafferty was, for the moment, content merely to listen, while frantically scurrying about in his head to resurrect his argument. And to gather several apt put-downs for his oh-so-superior, sergeant.

'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 in my wife’s family, 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 and remained seated.

After a wait of thirty seconds, Sir Anthony raised his head and fixed him with a haughty glare. ‘Was there something else, Rafferty?'

The way Sir Anthony 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. The quick temper of his Irish forbears was aroused and demanded some retaliation. He tried to keep his voice as bland as Melville-Briggs's better efforts, but not altogether certain he was successful, he ploughed on, '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 a chilling stare, and, for a few brief moments, the real man behind the cultivated urbanity showed through. 'A man in my position recognises only one thing, Rafferty—the importance of staying there.’

Rafferty blinked, and it was as if he’d imagined the real Sir Anthony, as pomposity return.

‘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 reflectively, as he remembered the victim’s bludgeoned face and her family’s distress and destroyed respectability. 'Or don't you think a common tart has a right to justice from the law?'

Melville-Briggs waved the suggestion aside.

'We can't be sure that another young woman won't meet the same fate.' Sickened by this dismissal of the poor young victim and her grieving family, Rafferty decided to play his wild card. He took the photo-fit picture of the girl in the pub from his pocket, threw it on the desk. 'Miranda, for instance.'

Perhaps he’d only imagined Melville-Briggs's loss of colour. His adversary recovered quickly and called his bluff.

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

Rafferty cursed under his breath. But he was determined not to let on that he didn't know.

The doctor’s bold bluff-calling might just be a fishing expedition to test the extent of his knowledge, Rafferty knew. It would be a mistake to let on that both his information and his semi-senile informant were far from reliable.

Rafferty took out his own Olivier skills and 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 briskly. 'Perhaps you would like me to make a few inquiries amongst my colleagues?'

'That won't be necessary, thank you, Sir. Our own inquiries are proceeding very satisfactorily. Very satisfactorily indeed,' Rafferty repeated, with an air as confident as only an Olivier-manqué could make it.

This time even Melville-Briggs couldn’t entirely conceal his dismay.

Rafferty assumed an even more omniscient air and decided he could risk exaggerating the extent of their knowledge. 'We have reason to believe this Miranda had connections with your London clinic, Sir.

‘We also have reason to believe she was in this area on the night of the murder and expected to meet someone. Odd that, because, so far, we haven't found anyone locally 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,' Melville-Briggs blustered, clearly struggling for an appearance of untroubled calm. 'But as she threw the note away, I've no idea who the girl might have been.’ He adopted the expansive, man of the world air again, and, with a throwaway gesture, said, blandly, ‘I have a large circle of friends and acquaintances, Rafferty, a lot of them young women, as your investigations have no doubt revealed. The girl could have been any one of them.'

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

The doctor shrugged. 'That's easily explained. I move in very successful, well-travelled circles, Rafferty.' Melville-Briggs exuded sounded smugness out of his very pores.

Rafferty felt class-hatred of the rich, the powerful, the effortlessly well-connected, rise from his own pores. With difficulty, he subdued them as Melville-Briggs continued.

'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, Sir. Instead of turning up out of the blue.'

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

Rafferty smiled. In a men-together sort of way. As, from the side of his vision, he took in Llewellyn’s firmly-Liberal affront. Just as well the doctor hadn’t met any of his female relatives. Fluffy wasn’t in it...

Melville-Briggs's, sexist response irritated him—wouldn’t Llewellyn be pleased about that? But with a ma who commanded respect and three bolshie sisters, Rafferty had learned the unwisdom of besmirching the female of the species; like the Black Widow spider, they had a tendency to bite. Still, he couldn't resist a little sexual insinuation in his response. 'If your friend is abroad, I expect she'll turn up shortly. Then we'll find out the truth, won't we, Sir?'

Melville-Briggs turned an interesting assortment of colours; several of which might be termed eau de f***ing temper.

Rafferty leaned forward. 'Now. Just for the record, you understand?’ In a casual aside, he asked: ‘You’re taking this down, Llewellyn?’ As if his superior Welsh sergeant would do anything else; the man was an automaton. He didn’t look for or acknowledge Llewellyn’s response, but ploughed on. ‘Are you quite sure you knew neither the murdered girl, Linda Wilks, nor this Miranda?'

After a telling, momentary hesitation, Melville-Briggs stated firmly, ‘Quite sure.' With a scowl, he declared, ‘Now, I have work to do—if there's nothing else?'

Sir Anthony's voice was 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 know where to find you.'

Balked of victory, Rafferty perked up as he remembered that even the most cast-iron alibis had been known to be broken: and by him. Still, he would give a great deal to see the effortlessly-superior Melville-Briggs humbled.

But, he reminded himself; salvaging his bruised pride wasn’t the object of the exercise; that was to find out who had murdered that poor, carelessly-loved, young woman, Melanie Wilks. The young girl with her dreams of film stardom shattered.

After he had sketched an ironic bow at the pointedly bent head, Rafferty and Llewellyn took their leave.

'Well?' Rafferty, by now weary of the Olivier-pose and its unnatural demands, burst out when they were safely the other side of the bear’s den. 'You were watching him. What do you think?'

'What do I think?’ I think you’re courting trouble. Sir. And the Superintendent’s displeasure.’

‘That’s a given. What else, man? Nitty-gritty time.’

‘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 discern.

‘Besides, he doesn't seem to me to be a man who'd soil his own hands with murder. He'd more likely pay 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.’ He paused, went into quotation mode. Rafferty groaned. ‘”Every guilty person is his own hangman,” according to Seneca.'

'Well, that's a comforting thought. Would improve our clear up rate no end.’

Although he was impressed by his sergeant's summing-up of Melville-Briggs, he wasn't in the mood to compliment him; Llewellyn so often seemed to act as though he was the superior officer that it stuck in his craw.

It didn’t help that his own behaviour during the interview had been a bit over the top; which was something he could be sure Llewellyn would remind him about in his own sweet time.

And, if old Seneca was right, if he recalled one of Llewellyn’s previous wiseacre quotations correctly: 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, professional-Yorkshireman with gimlet eyes firmly fixed on that greasy ladder, 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.