A Thrust to the Vitals

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘And were any of your other old schoolmates present on the evening of the reception?’ Rafferty asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No — none whose names or faces I recognised, anyway, though I suppose there might have been some from the school he attended before he began at St Oswald’s.’

  There were several of these, as Rafferty already knew. Unwilling as he was for Llewellyn to be reminded of this fact, he hastily thanked them both for their time and stood up. ‘I hope you enjoy your children’s party.’

  For the first time since they had entered the room, Dorothea Bignall looked animated. She sat up straight, her dull eyes brightened and there was the strength of real enthusiasm in her voice as she said, ‘Oh, we certainly will, Inspector. I admit the children’s party quite makes my year. I’m so looking forward to it.’

  Bignall showed them out, admitting, quite cheerfully, as he stood on the doorstep that he wasn’t as lucky as Samantha Harman in the alibi department.

  ‘You’ll find no one to vouch for me, I’m afraid, Inspector. I could easily have done for Seward. If I’d a mind to.’

  ‘And had you a mind to, sir?’ Rafferty asked.

  Ivor Bignall’s guffaw boomed out. Somehow, to Rafferty, this time its jollity sounded false.

  ‘Many a time, Inspector, many a time,’ Bignall replied. ‘Seward could be the most galling man. But not on this occasion. There was little enough time for us to have a falling out, anyway, as he had so many other guests who wanted to congratulate him on his home town honour. Besides, a knife in the back is such a cowardly method of killing someone, don’t you think, Inspector?’ His gaze level, he asked, ‘Was there anything else I can help you with?’

  When Rafferty shook his head, Bignall simply said, ‘Then ‘I’ll bid you both good day.’ The great front door shut behind him with a dull but resounding thud.

  ‘Maybe he’s got a point,’ Rafferty commented thoughtfully as they got back in the car and headed up the drive. ‘Perhaps it’s those among the suspects with a yellow streak down their backs that we should concentrate our attentions on.’

  Rafferty’s mind was so occupied with this thought that he didn’t even upbraid Llewellyn when, under his breath, his nothing if not punctilious sergeant corrected Rafferty’s grammar.

  Chapter Nine

  Samantha Harman, although grateful when Rafferty rang her to let her know that Dorothea Bignall’s evidence had exonerated her from the inquiry and any suspicion that she might have killed Seward, was unable to reciprocate this service.

  ‘I’m a man’s woman,’ Inspector,’ she told him with a flirtatious little giggle. ‘To be honest, if I hadn’t seen her watching me during the evening I’d have barely noticed this Mrs Bignall. She struck me as one of those little mice with nothing to say for themselves who vanish into the wallpaper on social occasions. It’s not even as if she seemed to enjoy herself at all during the few times I noticed her. I didn’t see her mingling with the other guests or anything. Still, thank her for me, won’t you? And tell her I’m sorry I can’t give her an alibi in return.’

  As Rafferty said goodbye and replaced the receiver, he reflected that the flirty waitress’s words indicated that Dorothea Bignall – ‘“one of those mice who vanish into the wallpaper”’- could have skewered Seward at her leisure without the busty waitress or anyone else noticing she’d moved from her wallflower’s position.

  And if Mrs Bignall had left her mouse’s corner, who was to vouch for Samantha herself? Apart from Mrs Bignall, none of the other guests whose names she had supplied had been able to confirm her claim that she hadn’t left the main reception room at all during the time that Sam Dally had singled out as the killing hour.

  As yet, they had found no connection between the pretty waitress and the dead tycoon. But the usual one — that of an attractive young woman and a wealthy older man — had more than proved itself down the years. The only difficulty with this scenario was, of course, that Seward hadn’t set foot in Elmhurst since he was a young man. At least, that was what they had been given to understand and was, apparently, what Seward himself had told several of the guests. Whether it was true or not was anyone’s guess, though what reason he might have had to lie about such a thing Rafferty couldn’t fathom.

  After he had finally managed to snatch some much needed but sadly insufficient hours of sleep, too soon for Rafferty’s peace of mind, Sunday night arrived, and with it, Abra’s return from Dublin. And although he was looking forward to seeing her, he was aware that her return would give him even more problems. How was he to explain his late night trips up the coast to keep Mickey provisioned without encouraging awkward questions? Abra was as curious as most females and would feel, now that he had proposed, that she had even more right to question his behaviour.

  Once he had paid his nightly visit to the caravan after work and dropped off yet more provisions for Mickey, who was getting increasingly stir-crazy and who filled the lonely hours by eating his head off like a pig in a truffle wood, Rafferty drove straight to Stansted to pick up Abra.

  He’d somehow, amongst all the other demands on his time, levered in a few precious minutes to practise a bit of bribery and corruption in order to get his and Abra’s midnight feast organised for tonight, so at least one thing was going right. But as he discovered when he got to the airport, it was the only thing that was. For Abra’s plane was late and when she finally emerged, it was clear she’d filled the time by drinking her duty-free. Several of her hen party girlfriends had returned on the same flight and had, equally obviously, enjoyed similar liquid refreshment. On her own, Abra was pretty raucous, but the four young women together were so near the knuckle loud and apparently determined to extend their hen party weekend they had Rafferty blushing and attempting to shush them.

  ‘Oh dear, girls,’ Abra confided with a loud snigger and a swing of her thick chestnut plait, ‘My Josy’s gone all posy on me. He’s got his serious face on. Do you like him with his serious face on, girls?’

  An even louder and enthusiastic chorus of ‘Nos!’ followed before they all dissolved in hysterical cackles.

  Rafferty sighed and thanked his stars that most of Abra’s girlfriends were already married. There was, at last reckoning, only one more friend, plus Abra herself, to be married off. And he had the latter in hand. But then, he supposed, the divorces would start and they’d have more hen parties for the second marriages. He smiled ruefully to himself and wondered if he was turning into a posy Josy, as Abra claimed, or if it was just that she was pissed and he was sober.

  The smile faded as, belatedly, it dawned on him that he was the only partner who’d been suckered into meeting the party; clearly the others had been married long enough to know what to expect and to avoid the embarrassment. Already running late for their surprise celebratory meal, Rafferty resigned himself to being volunteered for chauffeuring duties to get the other girls home. Fortunately, Marie, the soon-to-be-bride, and Abra herself, of course, lived in Elmhurst. The other two, Jules and Georgie, were on the way, so he dropped them off first and had to listen to another chorus, this one of protracted goodbyes.

  But eventually Abra and he arrived home, where, to hurry her up, he broke the news of their surprise midnight feast. They just had time for a quick shower and to change into something celebratory before they climbed into the taxi Rafferty had taken the precaution of ordering the day before — with all the December Christmas bookings, he had wanted to make sure of his transport.

  Abra, far from being tired after her exhausting weekend of partying, was delighted that Rafferty had taken the trouble to welcome her back with a romantic midnight meal. She didn’t even point out the illogicality of starting the Cinders’ celebration at midnight as he had expected her to.

  Being so up against it with this latest inquiry, there was no way he could have fitted in a meal any earlier and to get the restaurant of his choice to co operate, he had been forced to offer bribes of large wads of cash to both the owner and his chef to e
ncourage them to remain behind after the rest of the staff had finished for the night, the one to wait on them and the other to cook.

  But, by now, they were running so behind schedule, that Rafferty, having already made several pleading phone calls in order to get the increasingly surly restaurant owner to agree to remain open, had little choice but to offer another large bribe to make sure they stayed put. How could he not? he reasoned. He’d promised Abra that he’d organise a romantic meal before the murder of Seward and before she had flown off to Dublin. From his surly manner, it seemed improbable that he would manage to persuade the restaurant owner to rearrange it at this stage. Besides, if he tried to cancel, Rafferty thought it likely, given his fiancée’s alcohol-invigorated state, that there’d be another murder done. His.

  In spite of Abra’s frenetic, almost sleep-free weekend, during their supposed-to-be romantic dinner à deux in the delightfully-situated Italian restaurant overlooking the river at the town’s Northgate, it was Rafferty who started drooping over the flickering candlelight. Hardly surprising, as between the inquiry and his brother, he’d barely been able to grab more than a few hours’ sleep all weekend.

  ‘A fine Prince Charming you turned out to be,’ Abra teased as she toyed with her wine at the table in the corner of the otherwise now empty restaurant. ‘I don’t suppose you remembered to bring the silver slipper, either?’

  ‘Au contraire, Cinders.’ Rafferty managed to open his sleepy eyes in response to this rebuke. ‘Anyway, I suppose even the real McCoy Prince Charming would have felt a bit knackered after he went trailing around for hours trying to get the silver slipper to fit one of his many possibles.’

  Rafferty wished he had as easy a task in his murder inquiry. How nice it would be to have a handy slipper to test on each of his suspects. ‘The slipper fits, you’re nicked’, would be music to his ears. Alas, his once upon a time story was a long way from the happy ever after ending.

  But tonight was Abra’s night, not the murderer’s. Rafferty did his best to put thoughts of the investigation out of his mind as he told her, ‘In fact, I have something with me that I hope you’ll find a little more exciting than a silver slipper.’

  This said, he whisked a small crimson jeweller’s box from his pocket and opened it with a theatrical flourish. A pretty – and pretty damned expensive – solitaire diamond ring nestled in the box. The candle flame sparked it into vibrant, sparkling life that had Abra ’Ooh-ing’.

  ‘Oh, Joe,, is that what I think it is?’

  ‘It certainly is. Do you like it? I can take it back, if you don’t and you can choose another one. Or we can choose it together, which I suppose is something I should have waited for and done with you.’

  Rafferty had promised Abra they could go and choose her engagement ring when she returned from Dublin. But, somehow, he hadn’t been able to contain himself. He wanted his ring on her finger. He had had his eye on this one for some days, so it hadn’t even taken much valuable time from the murder inquiry. All it had involved was a quick in and out, taking a large chunk out of his credit card limit, and the deed was done.

  Besides, he knew what would have happened if they had chosen the ring together. Abra would have hauled him from one end of the High Street to the other, not to mention trawling him through several malls in the surrounding towns, before she returned to the very first shop they’d been in. He had been there before over other purchases.

  Luckily, Abra said, ‘Don’t you dare! It’s perfect. Aren’t you going to put it on?’

  ‘I don’t think it would fit my finger.’

  ‘Idiot.’

  Rafferty reached across the table and did as he was told; experience had taught him that, with the women in his life, it was by far the best idea.

  He was rewarded by the sparkle in Abra’s eyes outshining the glitter from the diamond. Behind him, the surly crashings and bangings that had accompanied most of their meal were silenced. In their place, he heard a heartfelt sigh and soon, Senor Fabio, the owner of this pseudo-Italian restaurant – otherwise known as Fred Ollins from Ongar – bustled over with two complimentary glasses of champagne, something Rafferty felt he could well afford given the excessive bungs he had extracted for providing the after- hours meal.

  Rafferty soon spoiled the happy mood by letting news of the murder slip out. Resigned now that the rest of the night would follow the fallow course of the previous hours, Rafferty awaited the expected pouts from an Abra only too familiar with the long hours demanded by murder investigations.

  Luckily, Abra was too occupied in admiring her engagement ring and fending off the fulsomely physical congratulations of Fred Ollins to pay more than passing attention to his news.

  She shrugged aside Seward’s murder as being of little importance beside her newly-affianced estate. ’I caught the news of his murder while I was in Dublin. I met him once,’ she told him. ‘I thought him a bit of an old goat. He even tried it on with me.’

  ‘He didn’t!’

  ‘No need to sound so surprised,’ Abra told him pertly, briefly raising her starry eyes from her engagement ring to berate his lack of gallantry. ‘I’m said to have some attractions, I believe.’ Provocatively, she tossed the shining length of her plentiful hair. She wore it loose tonight, in honour of their romantic dinner date. ‘Certainly, Sir Goat thought so.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’ Rafferty, not slow to take his cue, hurried on to add, ‘And so do I. Who knows? Maybe it was his goatish tendencies that got him killed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. But,’ Abra tapped his glass with the end of her fork, then was forced to wave away the romantically-minded Fred Ollins who thought he had been summoned back, and said, ‘tonight isn’t it you who’s meant to praise my attractions in a pleasingly adulatory manner?’

  Rafferty could only agree. Again. And, tired and worried about his brother as he was, he proceeded to do just that, until Abra was as happy in her beau as the original Cinders must have been in hers.

  He could only hope her happiness outlasted the duration of this latest murder investigation…

  Chapter Ten

  By Tuesday afternoon, the list of suspects had been whittled down to ten. Not bad, was Rafferty’s thought, as the guest list had numbered one hundred and the murder hadn’t been discovered until after midnight on Friday, the weekend had intervened and his mind, body and spirit had been otherwise engaged for chunks of it. But then, Rafferty, with a fiancée to keep sweet and with a brother in the worst sort of trouble, had ridden the team hard.

  It was fortunate that Sir Rufus Seward himself had proved a great help to them in this suspect whittling. His boorish behaviour caused the bulk of his guests to depart earlier than they must have planned, handily removing them from the equation.

  All the guests whom Rafferty and the team spoke to said much the same: that Seward had troughed-it-up at the council-provided bar and buffet like a pig at a truffle party. He had, in fact, so heartily snorted down the liquid refreshment that his truculent personality hadn’t, on this occasion, been reserved merely for his social inferiors and the help, as was apparently usually the case. Seward had himself dishonoured the honour the town had bestowed on him, much to the mortification of those council members present.

  Even Idris Khan, the half-Welsh, half-Asian current incumbent of the post of town mayor, and Mandy, his blonde, possibly cocaine-snorting wife, had retreated in the face of Seward’s increasingly truculent behaviour as the evening progressed.

  They had already discovered from the security men on the door that Khan, with his wife in tow, had returned much later in the evening after their hasty departure, to collect something that Mandy had left behind, though whether this was the small, cocaine-filled box that Constable Hanks had found in the main bathroom, or the white cotton gloves discovered discarded amongst the buffet leavings, they had yet to ascertain. Khan himself had said nothing to them about his late return when first questioned and neither had his wife. Which, Rafferty reflected, might
mean something or nothing.

  But before Rafferty questioned Idris and Mandy Khan again or attempted to broach the benefits of mutually convenient discretion about Mandy Khan’s suspected drug habit or Superintendent Bradley’s presence that night with the mayor himself, there was something else that he needed to organise.

  Time, he realised, was something he was desperately short of if he was to be in with a chance of finding the real murderer and freeing Mickey from his chilly, temporary bolt-hole before Santa started making his deliveries. Time was also essential if he was to stave off any complaints from his new fiancée. To this end, Rafferty had, since Abra’s return from Dublin, decided he would have to mobilise the help of his family. It wasn’t something he had been particularly keen on doing as it was often the case that the more people who knew a thing, the greater the chance of something getting out, but needs must, as they say.

  Besides, Ma confirmed she had broken the news of Mickey’s plight to the family, so, as that particular cat was out of the bag, he might as well make use of it. He got on the phone and organised a rota for visits and provisioning. Although there were dangers in the increased numbers, their help would take some of the pressure off him.

  His other brother, Patrick Sean, and his sisters, Maggie, Katy and Neeve — her name Anglicised from the Gaelic Niamh — were all sworn to silence. Each promised to take time out from their own demanding lives, which a fast-approaching festive season made even more demanding, to spend time with an increasingly depressed Mickey, and take turns keeping him company in his frigid metal cell.

  One by one, by Thursday, they had all reported back that Mickey was becoming increasingly despondent and was thinking of giving himself up. ‘At least, in a police cell, I’d be warm,’ was, apparently a recurring comment.

  Yes, bro, Rafferty thought on learning this unwelcome news. But, banged up, your arse is likely to be even warmer. And mine’ll be for the high jump. It would do his career no favours at all if it got out — as it was bound to if Mickey followed through on his threat — what part he had played in his brother’s disappearance.