A Thrust to the Vitals

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘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’

  She shook her head and supplied the names of several of the guests she thought might have noticed and be able to back her up — one of these guests was the party wallflower, Dorothea Bignall, whom Rafferty thought the most likely to have noticed the waitress’s comings and goings.

  They thanked her and, after asking for directions, headed for Randy Rawlins’ room. Rawlins, the weedy boy that Rafferty remembered from his youth, and who had been everybody’s victim, had become, if not any less weedy, then a lot less timid. Perhaps ‘coming out’ as gay had helped provide him with more confidence. Certainly, in Rafferty’s estimation, even in these ‘gay and proud of it’ times, he would have had to find some confidence to proclaim his sexuality.

  Randolph Rawlins, in his spare time and out of the staff uniform of white shirt, black trousers and scarlet waistcoat, was, Rafferty discovered, quite the snappy dresser. And although Rawlins’ room was small, its limited space was restricted even more by clothes and clothes rails. They cluttered all of the area that wasn’t occupied by the bed and side table. There was even one rail crammed behind the door — as Rafferty found out when he was forced to compromise his professional dignity and squeeze through the nine-inch gap that was all this obstruction allowed.

  This infra dig moment, as his Latin-quoting sidekick would doubtless refer to it, brought an unwelcome flashback to his early morning arrival at Mickey’s flat after his brother had confessed he was in the frame for Seward’s murder. Momentary panic gripped his throat as the difficulty of extricating them both from the mess hit Rafferty anew and he had to swallow hastily to restore some measure of calm. But, he reminded himself, as long as Mickey had the sense to keep out of sight, at least during daylight hours when there were likely to be people about, and no one made a confirmed ID, they were in with a chance.

  Besides, he could do little or nothing to prevent Mickey behaving foolishly. He had to concentrate on the investigation and the here and now if he was to have any hope of helping his brother.

  And as he followed his own advice and concentrated on Rawlins, Rafferty acknowledged a certain surprise that the hotel didn’t, on health and safety grounds if nothing else, demand their employee had a bit of a clear out.

  One clothes rail, as Rafferty saw when he had finally fought his way through the limited door opening, contained nothing but shirts: plain, frilly, silk and satin in all the colours of the rainbow and then some. Every style and hue was there. The same with the trouser and suits rails. Rafferty had to blink to reassure himself that he hadn’t wandered into Elton John’s room by mistake. And, after he had given Llewellyn the nod to begin the questioning, he found himself wandering how the waiter could afford so many clothes. Most of them looked to be from the high gloss end of the designer trade — something the snappy-dressing Llewellyn should be able to confirm.

  From his perch on the radiator, a pillow beneath him to prevent scorch marks, Rafferty, only half listening to Randy Rawlins’ monotone answers to Llewellyn’s questions, took a swift inventory of the garments hanging from the rails and reckoned there must be several thousand pounds worth of schmutter there. He certainly liked quality, did Randy. Yet, as Rafferty knew, most workers in the hotel business earned low wages. Of course, he would get tips and he had no accommodation costs to find, but even so….

  Rafferty told himself that how Randy Rawlins managed to afford such self-indulgence was none of his business. Not unless it had any connection to Seward’s murder. This thought brought him back to Superintendent Bradley and why he had lied about seeing the blonde. It could only be to divert suspicion away from himself. But that didn’t make any sense, because even in a panic, Bradley was enough of a policeman to realise that inventing this non-existent blonde was the surest way of concentrating that suspicion.

  Bradley had admitted that he’d visited the suite’s main and only non-en-suite bathroom, a bathroom situated close to the short corridor that led to Seward’s bedroom. It would have been the work of moments only to instead enter Seward’s room, creep up on him as he sat at his desk with his back to the door, and stab him.

  But would Bradley have brought a weapon with him on the off-chance that such an opportunity would present itself? Clearly, someone had. Why not Bradley as well as another?

  They had found no fingerprints on the chisel. And the only DNA had been that of the victim. But the super, whatever else he might be guilty of, was unlikely to be so foolish as to leave any trace of himself on the murder weapon, so the lack of any prints didn’t discount him from being the guilty party. Most people with even half a brain now knew of the dangers of being convicted by such evidence and would have been equally careful.

  In the super’s favour was the fact that Rafferty, even at his most determined, still found it impossible to conjure up a picture of the obsessively career-orientated Bradley so forgetting himself as to risk endangering everything he had — particularly his precious career — in order to revenge himself on the one man who had endangered that career. The super could be a canny bastard when it suited him. If he had determined on killing Seward, he would have hit on another way to do it. One that didn’t compromise him.

  Rafferty might have used Randy Rawlins’ interview to ponder other matters, but one corner of his mind had been monitoring the waiter’s responses to Llewellyn’s questions. So far, there had been nothing revealed that Rafferty, at least, hadn’t learned since Seward’s murder or recalled from their mutual schooldays.

  But then, the sudden, awkward break in the rhythm of Rawlins’ almost monosyllabic replies alerted him to the fact that Llewellyn had at last asked something of Rawlins that sparked more than boredom.

  ‘So what if he was rude to me?’ Rawlins demanded. ‘You’d be surprised how many guests are rude to the help. You get used to it. I really didn’t take any notice.’

  Rawlins’ response contained a surprising belligerence given his claimed tolerance for guests’ lack of manners.

  ‘It’s more than my job’s worth to dare to answer back to wealthy and important people like Sir Rufus Seward. Besides, I wasn’t the only person he was rude to.’

  ‘Yes, so I gather,’ Llewellyn replied, ‘but I understand that this was something rather more than general rudeness. According to your colleague, Ms Harman, and those of the guests who overheard, Sir Rufus sneered at your sexual orientation. Most people would, I think, find that extremely offensive and not something they would be prepared to tolerate. Especially coming from a man who – or so I have been told - had behaved in a similarly bullying manner back in their shared schooldays.’

  Rawlins darted a resentful glance in Rafferty’s direction. ‘I suppose you’re the one who supplied that information? I bet you’ve got me down as the worm that turned, haven’t you?’ He didn’t wait for Rafferty to answer, but continued in a distressingly revelatory manner, ‘I remember you and your two brothers. Right little Gang of Three at school, weren’t you? I remember you sticking up for your brother Mickey, when Seward started bullying him.’ Rawlins’ voice developed a wistful wobble as he added, ‘I often found myself wishing that I had a big brother to stand up for me.’

  At Llewellyn’s startled glance as he took in these revelations, Rafferty managed to smother the involuntary wince at the disclosure that he had known and shared Seward’s schooldays. Anyway, he had suspected this wouldn’t take long to come out. He had intended to bring this fact up himself, aware that his failure to mention it would look odd, but what with one thing and a
nother, he’d missed his chance. Thankfully, it was unlikely that Llewellyn would question him about the matter in Rawlins’ presence, so he had a little time to come up with an excuse, however lame, that would explain his failure.

  Anyway, that was of secondary importance. It was far more vital to keep the fact that his brother had been the late arriving guest quiet. It was fortunate that Mickey hadn’t entered the suite’s main room where he would have encountered Randy Rawlins, Nigel, and one or two other old schoolmates, but had, instead, made straight for Seward’s bedroom. If he hadn’t done so, Mickey would indeed be in a cell at the police station by now. And Rafferty would be off the case. As it was, the only people to have seen Mickey were the two bored and disinterested security guards and Bignall. And none of them had ever seen him before.

  For a moment, as he dragged his attention back to their current interviewee, Rafferty thought Rawlins was about to make a return to his weedy past and the behaviour that had encouraged so many of the school bullies, and burst into tears. But maturity, not to mention dealing with the wealthy and demanding clientele of the hotel, had clearly toughened him, for no tears fell. Even the betraying wobble had gone from his voice as he told them, ‘Nowadays, I fight my own battles. And yes, Sergeant, in answer to your question: I did find Seward’s remarks offensive — of course I did. But they weren’t any different from the things he used to taunt me about at school. Bullies, I’ve found, are remarkably unimaginative in their insults. I’d have given him the usual dumb insolence that none of them can bear, but I didn’t even have to do that because Mr Bignall had a go at him. He told Seward to his face that he was a disgrace who wasn’t fit to receive the ennoblement he had so recently been given.’

  Rawlins gave a malicious grin. ‘Seward shut up after that. I think Mr Bignall made him see he was showing himself up.’

  ‘So he didn’t say anything further to you?’

  ‘No, he didn’t even ask me to get him a drink — he kept sending one or the other of the Farraday twins over to the bar. By the end of the evening they’d made quite a few trips back and forth. He liked his tipple, did Sir Rufus. Must have made it easier for his killer to sneak up on him.’ Rawlins gave another, even more malicious grin. It was clear the thought was far from displeasing.

  ‘What do you think, Dafyd?’ Rafferty asked after they had squeezed their way back out past all the clutter, walked back up the basement corridor that housed the staff quarters and climbed the concrete staircase leading to the marbled reception area and out to the car park.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Sir,’ Llewellyn replied. ‘I think it’s very strange that you haven’t once mentioned that you were at school with Sir Rufus Seward, Randolph Rawlins and the rest. I take it it’s true?’

  Reluctantly, Rafferty nodded. ‘Are you sure I didn’t mention it?’ he asked, hopefully.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘I must be getting forgetful in my old age.’ Quickly, Rafferty steered the conversation back to their interviewee and his behaviour. ‘Reckon Randy Rawlins has learned to fight his own battles and decided to get his revenge on his old bully?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, certainly.’ Llewellyn’s response was cool, even as he added the observation, ‘there would appear to be enough rage bottled up there to make him a viable suspect. Though I got the impression that if he decided to kill Seward he would prefer to do it in a way that would enable him to humiliate his victim as he had been humiliated.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Rafferty, keen to keep Llewellyn’s mind on Rawlins and away from himself, said brightly, ‘You may well be right about that. But it might be that Rawlins decided to forego that particular pleasure and seize the only chance he expected to have. It’s not as if he could rely on Seward being likely to be back within his orbit any time soon. It’s not as if he made a habit of returning to his modest roots.’

  Rafferty, bent on continuing the diversion of his sergeant, brought up the subject of their earlier interviewee. Samantha Harman had claimed she had not left the main reception room in the suite once Seward had retired to his room. Now he suggested they should check out Samantha Harman’s alibi. ‘It might remove one person from our list at least. We’ll try Dorothea Bignall first,’ he announced. ‘See if she substantiates Ms Harman’s claim.’

  To Rafferty’s surprise, when they drew up in front of the Bignalls’ substantial detached stone house just outside the busy market town of Habberstone, four miles to the west of Elmhurst, Ivor Bignall himself answered the door. He was in his shirt sleeves and looked remarkably relaxed considering he was a suspect in a murder investigation.

  ‘Ah, Inspector,’ he boomed, loudly enough to rouse several fat wood pigeons from their roosts in the surrounding trees — and to give his wife warning of their arrival. ‘I wondered when we’d see you again. Come in. Come in, both of you.’

  He led the way down an enormous, square hall. It housed a giant Christmas tree with a mass of presents already piled underneath, even though Christmas Day was still a couple of weeks off.

  Bignall must have noticed Rafferty’s curious stare, for he said, just before he opened one of a pair of solid oak doors to the left, ‘They’re for the local village children. We always host a children’s party around this time.’

  There was a pensiveness in his voice as he added, ‘I had hopes for a brood of sons to take over the business, but it wasn’t to be. My wife and I are childless, so, lacking children of our own to spend our money on, we decided to treat those of other people.’

  ‘Very generous of you, sir.’ Rafferty looked again at the presents piled high and asked, ‘How many children do you entertain, exactly?’

  ‘Usually around forty.’ Bignall laughed as he took in Rafferty’s expression. ‘I can see the idea horrifies you, Inspector, but it really is great fun. And I get to play Father Christmas.’

  Rafferty, until he had heard how Ivor Bignall had stood up for Randy Rawlins, would never have thought the big man would have too many ‘yo- ho- hos in him. It just showed how wrong one could be about people. And, at least, with his booming voice, he would be able to do the ‘yo- ho-hoing’ justice.

  Bignall led them into the drawing room. This was another generously proportioned room, full of original period features. A second, smaller Christmas tree stood in the corner, its decorations a far more restrained silver and gold theme than the primary-hued decorations on its big brother in the hall.

  A fire roared in the generously-sized white marble fireplace. Rafferty was glad of it. It was cold outside and his car heater was on the blink. He could almost hear Mickey’s voice in his ear, saying, ‘Serve you right after the unheated hole you found to stash me.’ Ungrateful git.

  Dorothea Bignall gave them a wan smile from her seat by the fire. In spite of the great heat the fire threw out, she wore a thick jumper and a thicker Shetland wool cardigan buttoned up to the neck. Even with his body still unthawed, just looking at her brought Rafferty out in a sweat.

  ‘Sit you down, gentlemen,’ Bignall boomed from behind them, making Rafferty jump. Like the big man himself, Rafferty took care not to sit too near the fire. He was scared it might just send him to sleep before it slowly roasted him.

  Their questions didn’t take long. Mrs Bignall was quick to confirm what Samantha Harman had told them.

  ‘No, the waitress didn’t leave the room during the time you said was of particular relevance, Inspector. I myself was there all the time. I found I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I marvelled at her energy and the quick way she flitted around the room making sure each guest had what they needed. Time was—‘ she broke off with a barely perceptible tremor in her voice. It was quickly masked by her husband’s boom.

  ‘I’m afraid my wife isn’t a well woman, Inspector,’ Bignall’s hearty voice informed them. ‘A trifle “delicate” as they used to say in the old days.’

  Rafferty could imagine having a delicate – and permanent — sick headache if he had to listen to that loud and hearty voice every day.
Mrs Bignall must be relieved when her husband went off on one of his business trips and she could give the painkillers a rest.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ he enquired.

  ‘Women’s trouble, Inspector,’ Bignall boomed again.

  Bignall’s lack of delicacy made even Rafferty wince for his wife.

  In contrast to her loud husband, Dorothea Bignall had a quiet little voice that had her husband saying, ‘Speak up, my dear, speak up. I’m sure these gentlemen can’t hear you.’

  He was right, at that. Rafferty wondered if it was in an attempt to encourage greater volume in his wife that caused Bignall himself to boom so much.

  But Ivor Bignall’s hearty encouragement had the desired effect on his wife as she spoke up so Rafferty was at least able to hear her above the crackling of the logs in the grate, when, as well as again backing up Samantha Harman’s alibi, she confirmed what Randy Rawlins had said.

  ‘I was very proud of Ivor when he spoke up for that poor barman. I must admit, I’ve always found Rufus Seward a dreadful bully. He was much the same at school.’ For a second her voice faltered. Her husband came and stood behind her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  ‘You shouldn’t have allowed Seward to upset you so, Dotty. Those days are long behind you.’

  From Dorothea’s expression it didn’t look as if she agreed with him. ‘He was bad enough when he was young. Wealth and power hadn’t improved him.’

  ‘You said you were at school with him?’ Rafferty questioned. She had already said as much at the preliminary interview on the night of the murder, he now recalled. Doubtless Llewellyn, efficient as ever, had this fact neatly recorded in his notebook, even if it had slipped Rafferty’s own tired brain.

  Her pale skin flushed a healthy-looking rose before just as suddenly reverting to its normal pallor. ‘Yes, though only for a short while – a year or two. He moved to my fee-paying school, St Oswald’s, on a scholarship I believe, when he was about sixteen. He was there till he left at eighteen to go to university.’