A Thrust to the Vitals (2 page)

In spite of his brother’s worrying admissions, Rafferty felt humour bubble up and he added, ‘Bet he wishes he’d kept his distance from all that undoubtedly dodgy money for once. Even if he didn’t kill Seward, with the number of crooked deals that estate agency of his goes in for, I imagine the last thing “dear” Nigel wants is the police having a reason to sniff around.’

‘Especially if he’s the one who topped the pompous prat. And — even more especially — when
you’re
the sniffer-in-chief.’

‘True.’ But although Rafferty tried hard, for Mickey’s sake, he somehow couldn’t see his devious cousin Nigel — who always had one eye on the main chance and the other on the exit in case a swift flit was required – committing this particular murder. It seemed too little thought-through and spur-of-the-moment for Nigel. If he had wanted to kill someone, unlike the less than cool-headed Mickey, he would bide his time and await his best chance of doing the deed without unpleasant repercussions. Like getting caught. Mickey, by contrast, could be a bit of a hothead. This was a worrying trait in view of his late night visit to the long-loathed victim, and the other, steadily accumulating list of circumstantial evidence potentially linking him to the crime.

Rafferty’s lips pursed. And as his gaze followed the busy Scene of Crime team, he wondered if Mickey had left a trace of his presence behind. Anxiety over his brother’s problem as well as the increasingly pressing need to get back to the murder scene made him curt and he asked, ‘Where are you?’

‘At home. Sweating.’

‘Stay there,’ Rafferty quietly instructed. ‘I suppose you’re on your home phone?’

Rafferty sighed as Mickey confirmed it. He wished his brother had had the nous to ring him from a public phone. If questions were asked at a later date, calls to his mobile from his brother’s home at such a time would make it harder for him to deny either knowledge or complicity. ‘Did anyone see you in Seward’s suite?’

‘The two security guards on the door and one of the guests,’ Mickey confirmed.

‘Did they get a good look at you?’

‘Yes.’

Well, of course they had, Rafferty told himself. Stupid to ask, really.

Mickey’s third confirmation was even more worrying than the previous two, as was his clearly reluctant admission that he had actually asked the guest where to find Seward. The fool had left a trail that even young Tim Smales could follow.

Conscious of time ticking away, Rafferty said, ‘I’ve got to go. I’m still at the scene. There’s no way I can leave yet — I probably won’t be able to get away for hours, but I’ll come to your flat as soon as I can. We need to put our heads together.’ He would also need to separate the truth from the lies Mickey had already told him. The idea of his little brother having a ‘bit of business’ with the wealthy and successful Seward was about as likely as him reforming the band he had played guitar with in his youth and them having a smash hit. So why had Mickey lied? The question stirred even more uneasy feelings and yet more questions. But they’d have to wait: he had no time for them now.

‘In the meantime, stay where you are and keep out of sight. I’ll try to think of somewhere I can stash you, since you clearly can’t remain at the flat. Somebody’s bound to recognise you when the witnesses’ photo-fit is circulated.’ He’d delay this as long as he could, but it would be only a short-term holding measure until he had time to organise moving Mickey somewhere safer and more low- profile.

Although he missed her dreadfully, it was fortunate that Abra, his live-in girlfriend, was away on a hen party weekend in Dublin and wouldn’t be around till late on Sunday night to notice his absence while he tried to sort Mickey out with the essential bolt-hole.

In spite of the promise he had made to Abra in October, only a couple of months back, about not keeping things from her, this was one secret he would have to keep to himself — certainly until he had had a chance to think of who was most likely to be able to supply him with a place to stash Mickey where he would, for the foreseeable future, at least, have the best chance of staying hidden.

Because Rafferty didn’t relish the prospect of having to charge his brother with murder. Even less did he relish having to listen to what their Ma would say if he did such a thing. But as neither possibility bore thinking about, he put both from his mind.

With a grimace, after warning Mickey not to panic and do anything they might both regret, he said goodbye to his brother, pocketed his mobile and returned to the scene of Seward’s murder.

It was going to be a very long night.

Chapter Two

It had been after midnight when Rafferty, summoned from his bed by uniform, had arrived at the Elmhurst Hotel, following hard on the heels of his DS Dafyd Llewellyn and the Crime Scene Investigation team. Sam Dally, the pathologist, was the last to arrive as usual.

The hotel, situated to the northwest of Elmhurst, on Northgate near the River Tiffey and close to the site of the town’s Romano-British ruins, was in all its four-star Christmas glitter when he arrived. Jonty Reynolds, the night manager, distraught and approaching hysteria at the thought of all the uniformed and forensic teams trooping through the front entrance during one of the hotel’s biggest earning seasons of the year, had rung the station on learning of Seward’s murder and pleaded with Bill Beard, the officer manning the desk, that they use the rear entrance for the sake of discretion. This message had been relayed to Rafferty as he was on his way to the scene and he had passed it on to the rest of the team. For what it was worth.

The discreet approach was holding up — for now, anyway. Rafferty couldn’t help but wonder how long the manager imagined it would last.

Jonty Reynolds had made no objection to himself and Llewellyn in their civvies, entering by the pretty route. But Rafferty, at least, as he stood and glanced around the foyer, and took in the tall tree, rather thought he might have preferred the tradesman’s entrance and the bins. The tree was what he imagined Lizzie Green, one of the younger uniformed officers, would have told him if she’d seen it, was the height of fashion and style. Perhaps it would appeal to a twentysomething like Lizzie, he thought, but he failed to appreciate how a sixteen foot, fake black Christmas tree could possibly encourage anyone to enter into a proper festive spirit.

This black Christmas theme, teamed with golden baubles to relieve the depressant effect, continued throughout the hotel, according to the manager, who seemed excessively proud of it. It was to be found in the hotel’s four bars, its two ballrooms and its three restaurants. Rafferty hadn’t enquired about the decor in the annexe. Talk about Christmas at Dracula’s castle, he thought. Part of him half expected the count himself to appear from behind the thickly-branched black tree and set about adding to his problems.

Such an appearance would do nothing for the anxieties of the hotel’s night manager; Rafferty was already tired of listening to the man’s worries about the likely downturn in their profits once news of the murder spread. Besides, he thought the manager might be pleasantly surprised by the reaction of his clientele; in Rafferty’s experience, there was nothing like murder for attracting the paying customers.

Rafferty was relieved that the late Sir Rufus Seward, when consulted by the manager about his preference in Christmas décor, had declined the fashionable nonsense of a funereal black Christmas tree in the suite hired by the local council  for their reception, and had insisted on a traditional theme. Death black décor in the murder suite itself would be more than a tad macabre. Thankfully, the scent of the ten-foot- high Scottish pine he had instead selected, brought with it the glorious waft of Highland mornings and was a welcome breath of fresh air for Rafferty after he and Llewellyn had left the lobby, been whisked up to the penthouse and first entered the murder scene. It had helped, too, to mask the unpleasant aroma of hate, envy, revenge or whatever other negative emotion had brought about Seward’s murder, and which, like a spectre at the feast, had added its unwelcome ambience to the suite’s atmosphere.

Uniform had been quick to organise the removal of the remaining guests from Seward’s suite. They were now penned in another one, hastily opened up by the manager, and well away from the scene

Once installed there, Rafferty was told, they had grumbled, drunk the management’s complimentary alcohol and grumbled some more, while they awaited Rafferty’s arrival.

But, at least for now, they were out of his hair. Rafferty, grown canny over the years, had no intention of subjecting himself to a barrage of questions from people by now more than well-watered and who were probably inclined to be disagreeably intemperate in their demands to be allowed to go home. He was already tired after a busy day, so he preferred to wait till they were relatively sober before he attempted to question them.

To this end, he had instructed the manager to remove all the complimentary alcohol and bring copious quantities of black coffee instead. Clearly, judging by the reports that filtered back to him, and the increased volume issuing from their gilded cage after this instruction was carried out, he was unlikely to be voted police officer of the year in any popularity contest amongst the VIP guest stragglers. Doubtless he’d get Superintendent Bradley at full throttle later in the day when the guests, who sounded a pretty self-important lot, made their assorted, vociferous, and hung-over complaints. But that prospect, mercifully, was still some hours’ distant. It was the here and now he had to get through first.

It wasn’t as if he was short of things to do while he waited for relative sobriety to kick in amongst the last remaining guests.

The hotel manager, on Rafferty’s arrival and request for somewhere quiet to question Seward’s assistant, Marcus Canthorpe, had offered the use of his office. Canthorpe quickly produced the requested guest list as well as Sir Rufus’s address book and diary. Rafferty would take a close look at all of them shortly, but before he studied the scene, Rafferty questioned Seward’s assistant closely.

Canthorpe, a thirtysomething of middling height and slim build, was, thankfully, as sober as his dark suit. Rafferty was relieved to discover there was one party attendee able to coherently explain the evening’s events.

But, although coherent, quietly articulate and impressively efficient given the circumstances, Rafferty surmised, as he took in the man’s disordered, collar-length fair hair, that the subdued Marcus Canthorpe was worried about his future. His hair gave every appearance of the distracted Canthorpe spending the waiting time running his fingers through it. Rafferty, unused to such clear-headed competence from a person who found himself present at a murder scene, was surprised Canthorpe had been able to supply him with his late employer’s diary and address book so promptly and had commented on it.

Canthorpe had given a weary shrug when questioned about it and explained, ‘Sir Rufus does – did – business 24/7. He pays me well enough to be able to insist that I’m 24/7, too. And as his business interests are global, he needs to be able, at a moment’s notice, to contact his various business associates around the world.’ He paused, blinked, and then said, ‘
Did,
I suppose I mean.’

‘I see.’ Even the technophobic Rafferty knew there were such things as computerized diaries and address databases, so he asked why Sir Rufus’s apparently more than capable seeming assistant had made do with such old-fashioned methods of record keeping.

Canthorpe smiled wanly. ‘Of course we use modern methods as well — or rather
, I
do. But Sir Rufus is — was surprisingly maladroit with technology. He preferred to have the means to get in touch with people himself, hence the old-fashioned diary and address book. He was a hands-on boss, who preferred to be hands-off with technology. That was my area of expertise.’

Rafferty nodded and thanked Canthorpe for the concise explanation, though he was a little put out at the discovery that he shared any trait, even an aversion to technology, with a man like Seward, whom he had known and disliked. They each even had their own tame computer geeks at their beck and call: Seward had Canthorpe and he, of course, had Llewellyn.

‘I understand you found the body, Mr Canthorpe?’ Rafferty questioned.

Canthorpe nodded.

This was always suspicious in Rafferty’s book. Silently, as he studied Canthorpe’s fair good looks, he mused on the possibility that this could be his first inquiry where the murderer dunnit from motives of sleep deprivation.

‘Tell me, ‘Rafferty asked after this silent observation, ‘is it normal for you to interrupt your boss when, from what you told the uniformed officers, he had retired to his bedroom for a brief space of privacy during a socially-demanding evening, and had presumably indicated that he didn’t want to be disturbed?’

‘Yes and no,’ Canthorpe replied. ‘Yes, in that, if he was waiting for something urgent to be couriered over, he always instructed me to disturb him. Otherwise, no. But this evening was different. It was a very special occasion, of course, and I knew it meant a lot to him. Sir Rufus was very proud that his home town had chosen to honour him in this way, especially in the same year he received his knighthood. Besides, Ivor Bignall was one of Sir Rufus’s business partners. Not only that, he’s the local councillor in charge of the evening’s reception. And he and his wife wanted to say their goodbyes and go home. Mrs Bignall doesn’t enjoy the best of health — I was surprised they stayed as late as they did. I simply didn’t feel I could deny him access for the minute or two that would take and I didn’t think my boss would be pleased with me if I did so. Which is the reason I intruded on him in his bedroom and found — and found—’

Rafferty raised a hand to stop Canthorpe’s attempt to continue with this description. He’d already had this more than adequately described by the uniformed officers who had been first on the scene and who had to provide such descriptions as part of their jobs. Besides, he and Llewellyn had already seen the body for themselves. He thanked the late Seward’s assistant and added, ‘You’ve made the sequence of events very clear.’