When he reached his car and climbed in, Rafferty sat brooding. If Idris Khan continued to insist hat it had been his wife’s handbag rather than her tin of cocaine that had forced their return to Seward’s suite broaching the idea of some mutual discretion became impossible. It also meant that increasing Llewellyn’s suspicions by excluding him from the interview had been unnecessary.
As he turned out of the car park and drove back to the station to pick up Llewellyn so they could conduct the remainder of the day’s interviews, he wondered if his return would herald another inquisition.
Chapter Eleven
Bested in his hope of being able to come to discreet agreement with Idris Khan, later that day, Rafferty decided he ought to make a start on investigating one of the other possibilities in the case.
According to Marcus Canthorpe when Rafferty rang and questioned him on the subject, Seward’s solicitors, McCann, Doolittle and Steel, were near his Norfolk home rather than in London, as Rafferty had expected.
Canthorpe had put him straight when he had asked about it – ‘He only uses the McCann firm for personal stuff. All the business legal work is done by a City firm, as you’d expect.’
‘I see. So McCann, Doolittle and Steel would have written up Sir Rufus’s will?’
Canthorpe agreed. ‘He dealt with Philip Metcalfe, one of the partners.’
‘If you could let me have their address and phone number, it would be helpful.’
‘Of course.’ Canthorpe rattled off the details immediately without having to check them.
Luckily, when Llewellyn rang McCann, Doolittle and Steel to make an appointment, it was to find that Philip Metcalfe, the partner who dealt with Seward’s affairs, had had a cancellation for that very afternoon and if they could get themselves to the Norwich office around lunchtime, he would be free to see them.
After he had confided this information to Rafferty, Llewellyn, clearly still put out at being kept on the side lines, commented, ‘Unless, that is, this is yet another interview you would prefer to do solo?’
Rafferty, in the hope that he wouldn’t have to endure Llewellyn’s reserved and distant act during the long drive to Norwich, tried to jolly him along. ‘And why, my handsome Welsh dresser, would I want to do that when you’re being such stimulating company?’
Clearly Llewellyn thought this comment undeserving of a reply. The journey to Norwich was conducted in the frosty silence Rafferty had predicted.
The name of McCann, Doolittle and Steel might have sounded as dusty and Dickensian as Jarndyce and Jarndyce, but the solicitors’ business premises were modern; a three-storey office building on the northern side of Norwich, that could have been erected no earlier than the 1970s.
Inside, it was sleek and streamlined and like no solicitor’s offices that Rafferty had ever seen. Starved of congenial conversation during the frosty drive, he remarked on it to the middle-aged receptionist while they awaited Philip Metcalfe’s secretary.
She smiled. ‘I know what you mean, Inspector. I still miss the old building, even though it had four flights of stairs and the once-elegant rooms were partitioned off into cramped offices that meant you had to breathe in as you squeezed past a colleague. But even with all its drawbacks as a business premises, it was a beautiful building, Georgian and still with all its original features. For all its mod cons, this place is a bit soulless by comparison.’
Rafferty nodded. He, too, found the streamlined modern building pretty soulless, but then he felt this way about the majority of modern buildings: their architects had made no provision for the human being’s need for beauty, for food for the spirit. Me and Prince Charles? he murmured to himself. We’re Blood Brothers. ‘Still, I suppose it’s more comfortable here?’
‘Yes. And it’s certainly warmer, though the old place, being in the centre of Norwich, was much handier for the shops.’ She nodded over Rafferty’s shoulder. ‘There’s Claire, Mr Metcalfe’s secretary, come to take you up.’
Rafferty thanked the receptionist. He and Llewellyn followed Claire into the lift and they were whisked up to the second floor. In no time at all they were seated in Metcalfe’s large, expensively appointed, and book-lined office.
Seward’s personal solicitor, from his gelled hair to his beautifully manicured nails, looked as sleek as the firm’s black marble reception desk. Still, he was pleasant enough and proved helpful. He had even got his secretary to retrieve Seward’s will from storage in the two hours that had elapsed between Llewellyn’s telephone call and their arrival; a veritable feat of efficiency for a solicitor, in Rafferty’s experience of the breed.
‘Not that I really need the document itself,.’ Metcalfe told them with a wry smile. ‘I pretty much know the details by heart.’
‘Really?’ Rafferty was curious. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I rewrote the wretched thing for Sir Rufus every few weeks. He liked to play the will game.’
‘The will game?’ Rafferty repeated. And although his repetition of Philip Metcalfe’s phrase sounded suitably puzzled, he had already guessed what form this ‘will game’ might take before the solicitor responded.
‘The “who will I disinherit this week?”, game was one of Sir Rufus’s more frequently indulged hobbies,’ Metcalfe told them with another wry smile that revealed teeth as gleaming and perfect as an American movie star’s. ‘Though I shouldn’t complain. Keeping up with all Sir Rufus Seward’s rewritten wills was what might be called a nice little earner. I must admit that I have reason to regret that his death brings this nice little earner to an end.’
‘So you’re saying that his heirs were disinherited regularly?’
‘Oh yes.’ Metcalfe nodded. ‘I think I can agree with that statement.’
Rafferty found himself nodding in response. It was a possibility he remembered thinking likely himself. What curious ways the wealthy found to amuse themselves. ‘I shall need details of his heirs,’ he told the solicitor, ‘and whether they’re currently in or out as well as a copy of the will itself.’
‘Certainly.’ Metcalfe pressed the intercom that presumably went through to his secretary’s office and asked Claire to come in. She appeared almost immediately and took the will off for photocopying.
‘Perhaps, while we wait, Mr Metcalfe, you could give us the gist of the latest will and who’s in and who’s out?’
‘Of course.’ Philip Metcalfe leaned back in his black leather executive chair, closed his eyes and quoted from memory as Llewellyn took notes: ‘To each of my three ex-wives, photographs of the luxurious foreign residences I’ve acquired since they left me and which they will never have the pleasure of visiting; to my sister, Jennifer, the Caribbean house and three million pounds; to my nephew, Garth, three million pounds and the apartment in New York; to my nephew, Jason, three million pounds and the villa in Rome; to my nephew, Rufus Junior, a photo of my Norfolk estate and an unmarked calendar for the current year.’
‘Why a calendar?’ Rafferty interrupted to ask.
Metcalfe opened his eyes and gazed at Rafferty. ‘Because Sir Rufus, like a lot of wealthy men, liked his heirs to dance attendance on him. The empty calendar was a reminder to Rufus Junior that he’d failed to visit his uncle with the frequency he expected of him.’
Rafferty’s lips pursed in a silent whistle. ‘A bit tough on Rufus Junior to miss out when the other nephews did so well.’
‘Yes. For young Rufus, the timing of his uncle’s death was unfortunate. Now, if it had happened this time last year, he would have been in and Garth out.’
‘Why? Was Garth remiss on the visiting front at the time?’
‘On the contrary. Garth got removed from the will because he showed his face too often. Even Sir Rufus found the extent of his sycophancy nauseating and told him so. His heirs had a finely judged balancing act to master, Inspector, in order to stay in their uncle’s good books and his will.’
‘What about his employees? Are they down to receive the usual bequests?’
&n
bsp; ‘No. Sir Rufus always said his staff received salaries that were sufficient recompense for the workload. He didn’t feel they were entitled to anything more on top. Not that he told them that. He always used to say that he got more work out of them when he dropped hints about benefits to come. He even used to send Marcus Canthorpe, his assistant, backwards and forwards with his latest instructions about his will and to collect copies for signature and so on. Claire, my secretary, joked he spent so much time here, often just hanging about waiting for the latest will to be typed up, that he should have his own office. I’m amazed he remained with Sir Rufus as he confided that he’d had several better offers.’ He shrugged. ‘But so many of these tycoons are the very devil to work for. I suppose Marcus Canthorpe probably thought it was a case of better the devil you know.’
‘And this latest will — when was it drawn up?’
‘Two weeks ago. I remember I drafted it on the Monday morning and it went out in that afternoon’s post, but it didn’t come back with Sir Rufus’s signature till the Friday as he was away on business.’
Claire returned with the original will and the photocopy which, at the nod from her boss, she handed to Rafferty before leaving the office.
‘So who else stood to gain substantially?’
‘I’ve given you the names of the principal heirs,’ Metcalfe told them. ‘The rest are mostly charitable bequests.’
This surprised Rafferty. Owing to the problems Seward’s murder was causing himself and his brother, he had perhaps been rather too inclined to view the dead man as a thoroughly nasty piece of work, completely deserving of his brutal sudden death.
He rather regretted the necessity of revising this black opinion of the late Sir Rufus. Of course, no one’s all bad; hadn’t Old Nick himself once been one of God’s heavenly angels before his attempted coup and subsequent demotion to the pit? ‘Much of a charity giver, was he?’ he asked the solicitor.
‘Yes. You might be surprised. Sir Rufus donated some quite substantial sums to his favourite charities. He was a prominent and generous benefactor of several charities, both here in Norfolk where he had his main home and, more recently, since he first heard of the plan to honour him, in his home town of Elmhurst.’
Rafferty nodded. He could understand why this honour bestowed on him by his home town should spark a burst of generosity from Seward. It was good publicity for him. His newspapers had breezed over the hasty nature of his youthful departure from the town, the reasons for it and the fact that his status as benefactor to the place of his birth was a thing of very recent vintage. Instead, the editorial inches had waxed effusive about how deserving was his ennoblement and the ensuing home-town civic reception.
But, given what he knew of Rufus Seward’s character, Rafferty couldn’t help wondering just how much Seward had had to put into the government’s coffers to ‘earn’ his ennoblement.
As Metcalfe expanded on the theme of Seward’s generosity, reading between the lines, Rafferty got the impression that the solicitor shared his own view that Seward had made sure this generosity was widely broadcast. But, perhaps with memories of his early days and those who had shared them with him and who hadn’t done as well as he had in life to encourage him, Seward had also made donations to fund the education of Elmhurst’s and the city of Norwich’s talented but poorer sons and daughters. As Metcalfe told them, these donations were not revealed to the wider public in the way that the other charitable contributions were.
Perhaps, Rafferty thought, this was because they might have given Seward’s lowly origins an unwanted prominence, or perhaps they really had been given from a previously unsuspected fount of true generosity.
Whatever it was that had encouraged the latter benevolences, they were accepted more than gratefully by their recipients, several of whom had been invitees of the celebratory party, although, as their investigation had revealed, all had left early before Seward’s alcohol intake had tarnished the gloss on his benevolent inclinations.
‘Yes, Sir Rufus was pleased to regard himself as a philanthropist, both here in Norwich and in his home town.’
Rafferty detected the tiniest tinge of irony in Metcalfe’s reply. He couldn’t stop himself from commenting, ‘You didn’t like him?’ With his peripheral vision, Rafferty caught the sharp glance Llewellyn directed at him for his blunt question. Oops, he thought, another black mark. He ignored his sergeant’s glance and waited to see if Metcalfe would answer.
Philip Metcalfe smiled, clearly amused rather than offended by the question. Rafferty could only surmise that the solicitor found such straight and to the point bluntness singularly refreshing after dealing every day with the tortuous and dusty verbiage of the legal profession.
‘Is it that obvious?’ the solicitor asked. ‘No, he shook his head, ‘I didn’t like him. I had too many dealings with him, you see. Not an easy man to work for, as, I’m sure, Marcus Canthorpe, the Farradays and the rest of his employees could tell you. I imagine that anyone who had much to do with Seward grew to dislike him intensely.’ The skin at the corners of Metcalfe’s clear, grey eyes crinkled. ‘I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that I didn’t get an invitation to that civic reception in his home town. If I had, I imagine I might rank quite high on your suspect list.’
‘You and half the guests, Mr Metcalfe,’ Rafferty admitted, causing Llewellyn’s lips to purse in disapproval. But then Llewellyn was always tight-lipped and had never grasped that even a policeman had to give a little if he expected to get something in return. ‘At least at first. It was fortunate that Seward drank too much that night. His behaviour became nasty enough for a lot of the guests to leave early, which nicely reduced the numbers of potential suspects.
‘It seems,’ Rafferty continued in revelatory mood, ‘Sir Rufus Seward had another hobby in addition to changing his will: ‘making enemies, some of years’ long duration. A number of them attended the reception.’
‘Sounds like he paid too much attention to that old adage about keeping one’s enemies close.’
Rafferty nodded. And as he bade the solicitor goodbye, he mused that it certainly would have been far healthier for Seward if he’d kept his enemies at something farther than chisel-thrusting distance.
While they were in Norwich, Rafferty decided it would be a good idea to kill two birds with the one stone. He needed to further question Marcus Canthorpe and the Farraday twins anyway, so he might as well do it today and save himself another longish round trip. Not to mention having to endure Llewellyn’s uncongenial company.
Once they’d left McCann, Doolittle and Steel’s premises, Rafferty glanced at his watch. Lunchtime. They’d get something to eat before they made for Seward’s estate a few miles to the north of Norwich. He also wanted to pick up a local Norwich newspaper as it was likely to carry an extensive obituary of Seward. He might even find it contained some juicy revelation that would prove useful to the case.
Marcus Canthorpe and the Farraday twins were all still living and working at Seward’s estate. As Canthorpe told them when Llewellyn rang through to check, Sir Rufus had left instructions in his will, instructions that had been passed on by Metcalfe, that his staff were all to remain in their posts until after his will was proved.
And why wouldn’t they? Rafferty thought. Not only did they all have ‘expectations’, but, with their demanding boss dead, their continued employment was likely now to be more of a comfortable sinecure.
They left their car in the solicitors’ car park — parking in any city was often a nightmare best avoided and Norwich was unlikely to be an exception to this rule. Rafferty hailed a passing taxi and gave instructions before climbing in the back with Llewellyn.
‘I know just the place for a nice lunch,’ he told his sergeant, hoping a good meal would melt the permafrost glinting from his colleague’s countenance. ‘Little pub by Norwich’s market, called the Sir Garnet Wolseley. Run by a London couple. They do a nice selection of dishes and at very reasonable prices.’
It was a beautiful, bright day for December, the air fresh but not too brisk. And as the cabbie dropped them off, Rafferty glanced around with appreciation. With the market stalls and their bright awnings looking even more colourful under the beaming sunshine, and with the sho’s adorned with their Christmas glad rags, Norwich had an air of being en fête. He had always loved open air markets. He supposed it was in his blood, as his Ma had worked in one for some years after she was widowed. He spotted a newsagent and after buying the local paper they headed for the pub.
A short while later they were seated at a table in the Sir Garnet Wolseley. Rafferty opted for the liver, bacon and onions with mashed potatoes and vegetables. It was one of his favourite dishes, one rarely found on the average pub menu. Llewellyn settled on the salmon and broccoli bake in dill sauce. While they waited for their meal Rafferty quickly scanned the headlines in the local paper; but there was nothing that might help him, just the usual burglaries and muggings and a warning about dangerously pure heroin being dealt in the city. Disappointed, he put the paper away.
They didn’t have to wait long for their meal. And after Rafferty had taken the edge off his hunger and worked his way through two- thirds of the tender lamb’s liver, he slowed sufficiently to comment, ‘It’s interesting that Philip Metcalfe should have mentioned that Seward enjoyed disinheriting people. I bet his heirs would have promised Seward’s solicitor a tidy sum in exchange for knowing when they featured winningly in the will.’
Llewellyn finished his salmon, replaced his cutlery neatly, dead centre on his plate, and commented coolly, ‘Unethical, for a solicitor.’
Rafferty shrugged as he finished his own meal. ‘I wish I shared your certainty that legal types and ethics are well-acquainted. Doubt it myself — might get in the way of their income. Look at our members of parliament; more than a few ex-barristers amongst them, not too much evidence of ethics there.’
A Thrust to the Vitals Page 13
