Dead Before Morning (Rafferty & Llewellyn humorous crime series #1 in series)

by Geraldine Evans

  Unnerved, Jack was, for a moment or two, incapable of getting his small vocabulary together, but at last he managed it. 'I dunno. Bout half eleven or thereabouts, I s'pose.' He pulled a face. 'Deirdre knocked the idea of afters on the head. Shame, as it was a good night, too. Anyhow, sure an' we was walkin' back up the road to where I'd left me car and...'

  'You hadn't left it in the pub car park then?'

  'Course not! Do you think I'm daft?' Rafferty forbore to comment. 'I'd had a few drinks, hadn't I? It was after hours and the landlord's late with his back-handers this month. Deirdre was worried the cops might pounce out of spite. You know how the bast...' Jack's voice trailed away and a sheepish grin decorated his face. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'Anyway, the car was up the road, across the way from the madhouse on that patch of waste ground.'

  Rafferty broke in. 'Why didn't you tell the police you'd been in the pub with a bar-ful of witnesses at the time someone was ripping off the lorry?'

  'I told you,' he explained patiently. 'It was after hours. I'd have got them all in shtook, wouldn't I?' Apparently Jack's capacity for making instant friends hadn't changed either. He thought the whole world was his bosom buddy. 'I'd a still been there meself, only Deirdre kept on at me till I agreed to leave.'

  Rafferty reminded himself that he was related to this cretinous individual, even if only distantly, and counted to ten before he allowed himself to reply. 'I see. So in your opinion, it's better to go down for another five stretch than to nark on your mates for after hours drinking?' It wasn't as if they'd been that much over time, but perhaps his cousin had a point. Back-handers were a way of life and some of the uniformed branch could be most unpleasant about any delay in receiving their dues.

  Jack nodded, quite impervious to the sarcasm. 'That's right. I'll tell you somethin' else, an' all. Deirdre said I'd 'ad enough to drink - you know how women do - anyway, when I saw the bleedin' monk I thought she might 'ave a point. Perhaps I ought to lay orf it for a bit. What do you think?'

  'Monk? What monk was this then? Friar Tuck?' Rafferty was beginning to wonder if the low-wattage light bulb of his cousin's intelligence hadn't finally flickered out altogether.

  'I dunno,' Jack answered in all seriousness. 'He 'ad his 'ood over 'is 'ead. I only saw 'im for a second. Gave me quite a turn, I can tell you.'

  Rafferty decided to humour him. 'This monk,' he asked patiently, 'where did he go?'

  'Into the nut-house.'

  Rafferty didn't believe it. It couldn't be happening. Surely God wasn't so kind as to reward his good deed with such charity? Could it be, was it possibly - a lead? He felt a taut shiver of awe run up his spine as he looked at Jack's vacant features. What was it the bible said? Something about the least of his creatures? Out of the mouths of babes and the simple-minded? Llewellyn would know, of course, but Rafferty had no intention of bringing him into this little tete-a-tete. Careful, he warned himself, as he felt the urge to grab hold of Jack and shake him. Don't spook the witness. Take it nice and slow. 'You didn't, by any chance happen to see a car parked outside the hospital gate as well did you, Jack?'

  'A car?'

  'You know, one of those painted jobs with a wheel on each corner,' he enlarged sarcastically, saintly patience quickly forgotten.

  Jack's mouth dropped open. 'How did you know that? Bloody 'ell. You're smart and no mistake.'

  Rafferty smiled smugly. 'I try. Any idea what make it was?'

  'Can't remember.' Jack gave a sheepish shrug. 'I'd just come out of the pub, remember? One of those sleek jobs though. I'm thinkin' of getting one meself,' he added.

  Stealing one, more like, thought Rafferty. 'Get a glimpse of the licence plate, did you?'

  Jack shook his head again. But it wouldn't have made any difference if he had. Rafferty had nearly forgotten that eleven years of schooling had failed to teach Jack even the rudiments of the alphabet. Perhaps Deirdre would know.

  'You've been lucky, Jack,' he told him, as he got up and knocked on the door. 'I'll tell the inspector your story myself, it'll save Deirdre the trouble.' If he'd known his cousin had been with his girlfriend that night, he could have saved himself the unpleasantness of sorting it out. Women, he generally found, didn't worry overmuch about the shamefulness of snitching. Practical creatures, women. Still, he'd done himself a bit of good as well as Jack, so he shouldn't complain. 'You'll be out of here in an hour or two, I shouldn't wonder.' Ebullient, he nearly told Jack he could buy him a pint when he got out, but stopped himself in time. That wouldn't be such a good idea, he realised. The fewer people who saw them together, the better he'd like it.

  The constable let him out and Rafferty walked thoughtfully back up the corridor, stopping abruptly as his mind strove manfully to connect the tenuous strands of the case to the latest information. There was something, some glimmer of a connection. Was it, no wait a minute, could it be...? Something heavy lurched against his shoulder.

  'Sorry Inspector.'

  The constable grinned apologetically for his clumsiness and walked swiftly away as Rafferty scowled ferociously at him. Whatever his mind had been reaching for was gone. A few seconds before he had felt puffed up, good deed for the day performed and smug with the self-righteousness of the properly rewarded, now he felt horribly deflated. Slowly, reluctantly, he walked towards Rick Brown's office. But at least he wouldn't have to admit to a delighted Brown that Jack was his relative. Just checking out a possible witness in a murder case, wasn't he? And he had a whole bar-ful of drinkers to back him up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Rafferty had just got back from Harcombe when Llewellyn gave him the latest news. Melville-Briggs was dead. It took him a few minutes to take it in. Apparently, he'd wrapped his car around a tree at Wivenhoe, taking with him any faint remaining chances of charging him with murder. Llewellyn had been right when he'd quoted that old bod's words. How had it gone? Something about every guilty person being his own hangman? Well, Rafferty concluded sombrely, it certainly looked as if Sir Anthony had been his own executioner, whether or not his sins had included murder.

  He supposed it fell to him to break the news to Lady Evelyn. To Llewellyn's undisguised relief, Rafferty told him to remain at the office. Picking up WPC Green on his way, they drove to the Hall. The butler let them in and after briefly stating they were there on official business, they followed his broad black-clad figure into the winter parlour.

  'Inspector.' Lady Evelyn seemed pleased to see him and he stared guiltily at her. 'What can I do for you? Have you come to see over the house? I'm sure I've got time if...'

  Rafferty shuffled his feet. 'No, ma'am. Er - that is...' he began awkwardly. To fill in the gap while he remembered his carefully rehearsed words, he introduced his companion. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Ma'am.'

  Lady Evelyn frowned. 'Bad news? What do you mean?'

  'It's - your husband, Lady Evelyn. I'm sorry to have to tell you this. He's had an accident - it seems his car went out of control.'

  'How...how bad?' Rafferty shuffled his feet again. 'Please. Just - tell me.' Her voice was faint as she asked, 'Is he... is he dead, Inspector?'

  'I'm afraid so, ma'am. '

  Lady Evelyn sank down slowly onto one of the chairs. Bleakly, her eyes rested on the array of family photographs on her desk and her lips tightened as she struggled for control.

  'It - it would have been very quick though,' he told her in a desperate attempt at comfort. 'He wouldn't have suffered.'

  'I see.' She shuddered slightly and then sat up straight in her chair. 'Thank you for coming to tell me. I understand how difficult it is to break such news.'

  She seemed dazed, but apart from a faint white line around her tightened lips, she had taken the news with remarkable composure, much to Rafferty's relief. He had a quiet word with the butler who alerted the staff. The housekeeper took charge and she and one of the older female servants were soon plying their mistress with hot sweet tea. After quietly offering his condolences and having them as quietly acce
pted, Rafferty left the WPC behind with instructions that he'd send a car for her in a couple of hours and let himself out into the gathering dusk.

  Melville-Briggs's death seemed to act as a starter's pistol and, all at once, things began to move more swiftly. When Rafferty got back to the station, it was to find that Staff Nurse Estoce had finally decided to tell them the truth about Charge Nurse Allward's habits on night duty. He had been the one who had rung Linda that night, as they had suspected. When Linda had told him about the row with her parents, he'd promised her a bed for the night in exchange for a freebie. Staff Nurse Estoce had heard him on the phone arranging it. Yet, she was adamant that the girl hadn't turned up and had assumed that she had changed her mind. She had thought no more about it till the next morning when her body had been found. Rafferty didn't have time to dwell on this news because hard on the heels of the Staff Nurse's revelation came another breakthrough.

  They had found Miranda, or rather, she had found them. She turned up at the station and demanded to see Rafferty. She'd been hiding out in a cheap hotel in Wandsworth, apparently, and only now felt safe enough to leave it.

  Sitting on the visitor's chair in front of Rafferty's desk, the light from the window shone full on her. Her eyes were dilated, a fine sheen of perspiration marred the pale skin and as she fiddled with the collar of her blouse, Rafferty noticed that her fingers were trembling.

  'It...it began a year ago.' Haltingly, she continued her story.

  'What did?' Rafferty asked.

  'The - affair between Tony Melville-Briggs and myself.'

  So - she had been yet another mistress. He had half-suspected as much. Rafferty mightn't have admired the man, but he certainly had to applaud his energy. 'I don't quite understand,' he rapped out sternly. 'What has that got to do with Linda Wilks's death? You said it was connected.'

  Her eyes widened in surprise. 'Of course it's connected. It must be. Why else would he...?' She paused and began again. 'I was there the night the girl was murdered. It was meant to be me, don't you see?'

  'Perhaps you could be a little more specific, Miss Raglan,' Llewellyn suggested quietly.

  She nodded. 'I'd learned a lot of things about his practice when I was with him - I wasn't the only woman to whom he was giving powerful drugs.' Her voice had a vicious bite to it as she went on. 'He turned us into junkies for his own profit. Before I met him, I was only into drugs in a small way, parties and so on, but that soon changed. He made sure of it. Mostly, as my habit increased, I was just grateful for a reliable source, but later, when I realised just what he'd done to me, I wanted revenge. And I knew the perfect way to get it.

  'What would be more just than to make him pay for the habit that he had created?' she asked them. 'I needed more drugs and I expected - demanded, that he supply them for nothing - or else. He just laughed at me, was convinced that I'd be so desperate to get the drugs he supplied that I'd be as cowed as the rest, only too glad to do what he said. But I'd already begun to try to kick the habit. I'd voluntarily reduced my intake, but he didn't know that. I still needed them, of course.' She looked bleakly at them out of over-bright eyes. 'Perhaps I always will. Anyway, I was soon able to convince him that I meant what I said.'

  She shuffled restlessly on her chair, opened her handbag and started to light a cigarette before changing her mind and crushing it out in the ashtray. 'He soon realised he'd badly misjudged me when I put my demands more plainly. I knew he couldn't refuse.' An expression of malicious spite hovered for a second on her vapid features. 'I threatened to go to the papers. I could ruin him, you see. That's when the meeting at the hospital was arranged.'

  Rafferty remembered Nathanial Whittaker's description of the character of drug addicts; the weak, the stupid, the gullible, and in spite of Miranda Raglan's outwardly tough stance, Rafferty detected the rather foolish, insecure young woman concealed beneath the bravado.

  Llewellyn broke into his thoughts. 'But he can't have killed her. He had an alibi. We've checked it out very thoroughly.'

  'But it couldn't have been anyone else,' Miranda insisted, with a trace of hysteria. 'He was the only person who knew I was meant to be there. I'd arranged it with him myself.'

  Whatever she thought, it was evident to Rafferty that someone had known. He fixed her with a grim stare. 'You were blackmailing him, you say. How did you...?'

  Miranda turned up her dainty nose. 'Do you have to use that sordid word, Inspector?'

  'A sordid word for a sordid deed, Miss Raglan,' Llewellyn told her reprovingly. 'Did you never think of going to the police instead of taking matters into your own hands?'

  'The police?' she repeated scornfully. 'And what would they have done? Arrested me, not him, most probably. I knew he had powerful friends, you see. He threatened me with them once.'

  Rafferty felt the sympathy of a fellow-sufferer stirring and quickly stifled it. 'How did you meet him originally?'

  'I'd heard on the grape-vine that he'd supply drugs that other doctors wouldn't, so I contacted him. He was happy to oblige. I used to see him at his London consulting rooms twice a week, after hours, when the staff had gone home. Gradually he began to supply me with stronger and stronger tablets. I didn't realise, because he was careful to make sure that to a layman's eye the tablets looked similar. It was only when my cravings began to get out of control that I began to suspect. By then I was a helpless addict. It was costing me a fortune. So you can imagine how grateful I was when he suggested I sleep with him to reduce the price.' She gave a bitter smile. 'I gather I was one of a select little band.'

  Mrs. Devine had described Miranda as having "glittering" eyes - a typical description of a drug-addict's eyes. Why hadn't he made the connection before? he wondered. But, of course, the fact that the doctor openly specialised in drug-related problems had put him off the scent. Didn't the old crime writers say that if you wanted to hide a letter put it in the letter-rack with the rest of the mail? Suddenly, he was glad he hadn't dismissed Mrs. Devine as a senile old woman whose information was useless. 'So you made an appointment to meet Dr. Melville-Briggs in his flat the night Linda Wilks was murdered?'

  Miranda Raglan nodded.

  'That was a risky thing to do,' Llewellyn commented. 'Didn't it occur to you that you might be in great danger?'

  'Not then, only after. I was getting desperate.' She pulled a face. 'It's difficult to think straight when you're on drugs, Sergeant. You should try it sometime.'

  Ignoring this piece of advise, he asked, 'How did you arrange the meeting?'

  'After phoning him to let him know just what I expected, I told him to contact me with the details. He wrote me a note. Just the time and place.' She smiled, but her eyes were empty of warmth. 'He knew he didn't have any choice. But, once it was arranged, I became nervous, so I arrived early and waylaid one of the nurses as she arrived for duty and asked her to deliver a note to him. It said I'd changed my mind and I'd meet him in the pub up the road sometime before 11.30 p.m. but he never came. Obviously, that stupid nurse forgot all about the note and never gave it to him. And then I heard about the murder and went to ground while I thought through what to do.'

  'What time did you get to the pub'

  She shrugged. 'About ten. I'd come down a few weeks before, just to look around, when the idea of making him pay first occurred to me and I'd gone in the pub for lunch. I discovered then that they didn't bother to call time. On the night of the murder, I waited there for an hour and a half, being pestered by some appalling little man, but Tony didn't turn up. I learned why the next morning.' Her face took on an expression of distaste. 'That's when I booked into that scruffy hotel. God knows what the girl was doing wandering around the hospital at that time of night, but whatever she was doing there, I'm convinced Tony killed her, mistaking her for me in the darkness. From the pictures in the papers, we are superficially alike.'

  'When did you make the appointment with Melville-Briggs?'

  'The week before the girl died.'

  Rafferty
frowned. Couldn't she even be bothered to remember Linda Wilks's name? he wondered irritably. After all, the poor bitch had died for her. But he wasn't here to make judgements, he reminded himself grimly. In some ways, Miranda Raglan, too, had been a victim. 'But he must have known when he arranged to see you that he'd be at a medical dinner at The George all night. Such important events are arranged weeks in advance. It seems likely he would check his diary before arranging to meet you. It looks very much as though he made the appointment knowing he wouldn't be able to keep it.'

  'Are you saying that he arranged for someone else to murder me? Some hired assassin?'

  It was possible, he supposed, hadn't Llewellyn alluded to the possibility? But somehow, with him, it struck a false note. Would Melville-Briggs be likely to place himself in jeopardy from another blackmailer? Even if a hired killer didn't blackmail him, how could he be sure that such a criminal wouldn't cop a plea in the future if arrested for another killing? No, he was still convinced that this was an inside job. But who thought enough of Sir Anthony to kill his troublesome mistress for him? His wife, who had long accepted his faithlessness and lived her own life? Simon Smythe who feared him? The Galvins, both of whom had reason to feel a bitter hatred towards him? There was no-one connected with the case who Melville-Briggs could persuade to do his dirty work. Even the obliging Gilbert, who wasn't beyond indulging in a little attempted blackmail himself if he thought he could get away with it, would shy away from murder. Besides, he had stayed in the pub till he had been chucked out at one in the morning, not that Melville-Briggs would be likely to trust his sly porter with the task, anyway.