A Thrust to the Vitals Page 8

  ‘Though it would be a help if you could give me some times, sir,’ Rafferty pointed out in a more than reasonable tone. ‘Like when, precisely, you arrived and departed.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ The super paused and frowned down at his large, imposing and paper-free desk as if searching for inspiration. Then his brow cleared. ‘I remember now. Myself and my lady wife were there for about an hour. We arrived around ten-thirty and left about an hour later. I heard the clock in the suite’s main room chime the half-hour as we retrieved our coats. I had an early booking on the golf course this morning,’ he explained, ‘which is why I didn’t stay too long. Well, that and the fact that Sir Rufus was a little …how shall I say?’

  ‘Tired and emotional?’ Rafferty quickly suggested.

  ‘That, certainly. And a tad belligerent but.’ Bradley’s heavy features formed into a ferocious scowl at the remembered indignity to his amour-propre before he continued. ‘My wife and I had had a tiring evening, Rafferty, as we had attended an earlier function. I knew that our driver, too, must have been ready for his bed. So we said goodnight to the other guests and left. We didn’t see Seward again to say goodbye to him.’

  Rafferty studied the wall behind Bradley so as not to look at the super’s expression in case a snigger at his chief’s evident discomfiture escaped. Fortunately, it was on this wall that Bradley displayed the egotistical photo collection that captured the super with various royal and political worthies. Like the rest of the office with its self-aggrandising props to Bradley’s greater glory, the wall was testimony to the man’s self-importance. It removed any desire to snigger.

  Rafferty smiled inwardly at Bradley’s unconvincing concern for his driver’s beauty sleep. Even if Rowbotham – Wrinkles to his friends – woke after a sleep of a hundred years, any beauty he might have started out with before becoming Bradley’s driver had long since vanished into the increasing furrows.

  ‘You say you didn’t say goodnight to Seward himself?’

  ‘Ah, no. Actually, Rafferty, by this time he’d retreated to his bedroom and had remained there. It was some thirty minutes later when I and my wife were leaving, that I caught a glimpse of some young blonde woman entering his room. Naturally, in the circumstances, I assumed Seward wouldn’t welcome any interruption.’

  Rafferty frowned. This was the first he had heard of any young blonde woman entering Seward’s bedroom. ‘Do you know if anyone else saw this woman go into Seward’s bedroom?’ If they had, none had mentioned the fact – including that keen networker, his cousin Nigel.

  ‘Er, no. They can’t have. Apart from us, there was no one else in the hall at the time. Everyone else was still in the main reception room. I hadn’t seen her earlier, which seems rather odd, now I think about it.’

  ‘You said that you and your wife were leaving when you saw this woman. Didn’t Mrs Bradley see this blonde?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe so.’ Bradley’s jowls gave a little jelly wobble, though his gaze was sharp as a stiletto when he was forced to deny the possibility. ‘She was some yards behind me, while I was adjacent to the short hallway which I understand led directly to Seward’s bedroom. Anyway, as I told you before, Rafferty, I only caught the briefest glimpse of this woman. One second she was there and the next she’d gone, passed into Seward’s bedroom.’

  It crossed Rafferty’s mind to wonder whether the super might not be telling porkies for purposes of his own, such as inventing yet another suspect with more opportunity than Bradley himself to stick the blade in.

  Still, if the super was telling the truth, it showed that Seward’s murderer was very daring to kill in the midst of a party. Downright audacious, in fact. Strange that such a daring killer didn’t feel it beneath him or her to kill in the cowardly, blade in the back way that Seward had been murdered.

  ‘Did you recognise this young woman? Or know her name?’

  Bradley shook his head. ‘No. As I told you, I don’t recall seeing her earlier in the evening, but I only saw the back of her head. She was wearing some sort of long raincoat. Came down to her ankles.’ The super shrugged and added, ‘The latest fashion, I suppose.’ His lips thinned. We weren’t introduced to anyone. Seward was singularly remiss in this regard — at least he was by the time my wife and I arrived.’

  To cover this humiliating affront to his dignity, and to try to explain such an appalling offence, Bradley added, ‘Of course, the party had already been going for some hours by the time we arrived. Most of the guests had already gone and the rest were well gone, if you get my drift. Not exactly up to making intelligent conversation. The alcohol had clearly been flowing liberally.’

  Bradley, a real Yorkshire long pockets, clearly didn’t approve of such liberality; certainly not when he had arrived too late in the proceedings to fully participate in this trough-fest. Rafferty also got the distinct impression that the super was decidedly miffed that his arrival hadn’t been heralded by adulatory trumpets at the very least. Bradley took his rank seriously and expected everyone else, even civilians, to do the same. To not even be introduced must have been galling for a man of his sensitive ego.

  ‘Actually, you know, now that I think about it, I don’t recall seeing the young woman among the guests at all. She wasn’t particularly tall, so, I suppose it’s possible she could have been at the far end of the room from the bar where I was and was shielded from my line of sight by a larger guest. But I would think she must have been a late arrival, like myself, as the raincoat she was wearing would indicate. Perhaps the security personnel will remember her?’

  Rafferty nodded. If they did, they had yet to mention the fact. He wondered if Seward had ordered up a late night tart takeaway to take away the string of how disappointingly his civic reception had turned out, with so many of his guests departing with an insulting and early alacrity. It would explain why Bradley hadn’t noticed the young woman earlier. If she had been there at all, of course, and wasn’t just a convenient figment of Bradley’s imagination. The hotel’s security men would be used to such late night arrivals — perhaps this one had just mingled in their minds with all the rest? They might even have ordered her up for Seward themselves, of course, and decided to keep quiet about it in case their willingness to oblige such guests’ needs got them the sack. If, that was, Rafferty repeated to himself, she existed at all. But why had Bradley mentioned the coat, if that was the case?

  Now he changed tack. ‘Did you know Seward well, sir? Was he in the habit of abandoning his guests for bedroom frolics?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never met the man. I was invited by the council because of my high profile in the area.’

  Bradley preened a little at this self-recognition. ‘It’s my understanding, though, that this was the first time that Seward had returned to Elmhurst. Certainly, I’d never before met him at one of these junke —- functions,’ Bradley quickly corrected himself. ‘And given that, like myself, he was a man of a certain prominence, I would have thought he would be sure to be invited, even if he returned to the town only occasionally. And as for his behaviour at the reception…’ Bradley shrugged and seemed to do his best to summon up a Christian spirit of understanding and forgiveness. And though he produced the right words, it was clear his heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘He’s a single man, I believe, with no marital ties.’ Bradley sniffed. ‘I suppose that makes him a free agent in the romantic arena, even if it’s a poor do that he should choose to abandon his guests while he indulged himself with a local tart.’

  If having three ex-wives and three divorces constituted any sort of ‘freedom’, Rafferty thought. The alimony alone must be far from ‘free’ for Seward.

  That was a thought: Seward was reputedly an extremely wealthy man. And, as he had observed with regard to Nigel Blythe, where there’s brass there’s the possibility of further Nigels of either gender keen to get their hands on it. Maybe, someone down to inherit a pile in Seward’s will had decided they’d prefer to inherit the spoils sooner rath
er than later, and thus avoid the risk of the benefactor playing the rich man’s favourite game of changing their will. Given what he already knew of Seward’s personality, Rafferty suspected this must have been a distinct possibility. For anyone with hopes of receiving an inheritance from Seward, life must have been like walking a tightrope with no safety net. It was yet another angle he would have to look into.

  Till now, because of his brother’s unfortunate dilemma, the ancient history Mickey shared with the dead man, and the fact that Seward had been murdered on his belated and triumphant return to his home town, Rafferty had been obsessed with the thought that someone with a grudge from Seward’s past was the killer.

  But, even this early in the investigation, they had discovered that Seward still retained the uglier traits of his youth and had a well-deserved reputation for offending people. So it was possible that his killer was someone with a much more recent grudge than that of Rafferty’s brother or one of the others amongst Seward’s old playmates.

  They would, at the earliest opportunity, have to check out Seward’s assorted ex-wives and any others who might be down in the will to inherit a substantial amount. And even if one of these potential legatees didn’t turn out to be numbered amongst the party guests themselves, who was to say that one of the ruthless invitees hadn’t agreed to oblige a money-hungry damsel for a share of the spoils? From that angle, it might also be worth finding out if the finances of any of the business attendees amongst the guests were less than sound.

  While following this interesting train of thought, Rafferty had tuned out Bradley’s return to self-justification for his failure to mention his own presence on the night of the murder. But he tuned back in just as Bradley said, ‘…suppose Seward thought, that as it was his party, he was entitled to some fun instead of fulfilling his social duty of making conversation with his guests. Besides, I imagine he felt that as he was the star turn, he was entitled to behave like a prima donna, but.’

  Rafferty bit down hard on his lip. It was clear that Seward, once the drink had started flowing in earnest, had downed his share and more, and with the night no longer young, had felt little interest in making conversation with the super, either. No wonder, ignored and not even introduced to any other attendees, a distinctly miffed Bradley had insisted he and his wife leave a mere hour after they’d arrived.

  And unless they could trace this mystery blonde whom the security guards had failed to mention, and she and they confirmed what Bradley had told him, the super had just placed himself nicely in the frame alongside Seward’s staff, the barman Randy Rawlins, Samantha Harman the waitress, Ivor and Dorothea Bignall, Idris and Mandy Khan and Mickey himself.

  Maybe, Rafferty thought, maybe, there is a God.

  After he had left the super, Rafferty returned to his own office. Thankfully, it was empty, Llewellyn, presumably having postponed his attempt to retrieve the locked away photo fit and make himself useful on another aspect of the case. Rafferty wanted some peace and quiet and thinking time to review the conversation he’d just had. Was it just his imagination or had Bradley seemed decidedly shifty?

  Of course, Bradley’s odd behaviour might just be caused by embarrassment and the fear of potential humiliation once the media got hold of the fact of his involvement, however innocent it turned out to be. Bradley adored being a media darling and courted such attentions at every opportunity. He would loathe being minced up by them or being made to appear a fool that he hadn’t detected a murder happening practically under his nose. He would also hate the brass learning of his predicament; he would fear that his name appearing on the suspects’ list might harm his future career prospects. And he would also hate the teasing to which he would be subjected amongst his peers. For while Bradley, the bluff, gruff and some said ‘professional’ Yorkshireman might relish dishing it out, Rafferty had never seen him take it.

  This thought prompted his brain to spring on him an astonishing possibility. He had earlier briefly considered, enjoyed, and reluctantly dismissed the likelihood of Bradley being the murderer, believing it to be no more than the stuff of fantasy.

  But what if it wasn’t? What if Bradley risked rather more than embarrassment and humiliation at the hands of the media? OK, just as, given its MO, Rafferty found it difficult to consider his cousin Nigel Blythe as the murderer, he found it even more difficult to believe Bradley was the chisel-wielder.

  That didn’t make either possibility impossible, though. Like Mickey, Bradley had a temper; unlike Mickey, the super had an ego to match.

  OK, the fact that Bradley had been ignored by his host was, even for the egocentric super, insufficient reason for chisel-plunging. But what if, in spite of Bradley’s denials that he had known the dead man, they had shared a history? One that Bradley felt was deserving of the ultimate retribution?

  According to a number of the guests, Seward had goatish tendencies where women were concerned and Bradley’s wife was an attractive woman. What if the attractive blonde whom Bradley claimed to have seen disappearing into Seward’s bedroom wasn’t a tart takeaway at all, as he had surmised, but Bradley’s wife? No. Rafferty shook his head. Why even mention it, if so?

  But the thought was an intriguing one and Rafferty found it was not so easily dismissed.

  Because, if Bradley had reason to suspect sexual congress had happened before then the possibility of him indulging in some chisel-plunging moved up several notches. Bradley was a man who took himself, his ego and his pride very seriously. His wife, as an extension of himself, would be similarly regarded. If Seward had compounded his earlier rudeness by cuckolding Bradley, the Yorkshireman’s temper might well descend into the red mist zone.

  And, even if Bradley hadn’t murdered Seward, he would hate his detecting credentials to be called into question because of his failure to notice anything untoward at the scene. Which gave Rafferty another idea. Of course, he had to investigate the possibility that his boss was the murderer — it was his duty as a police officer — but, even if Bradley wasn’t guilty of murder, his presence at the scene might yet still provide protection for Mickey in his current plight.

  At the moment, the only people who were apparently aware of Bradley’s identity and his presence at the reception were himself, DS Mary Carmody, Llewellyn, whom she had told, and Idris Khan, the guest who had first informed Carmody about it.

  Neither of his sergeants were gossips, but he’d have a quiet word with both of them, just in case. Perhaps, too, if he had a quiet word with the mayor, Idris Khan, they might be able to agree to some mutual discretion – Rafferty about what he suspected might be the unfortunate cocaine habit of the mayor’s wife, and Khan about Bradley’s presence that evening…

  That left the other six well-sodden last-dreg party guests, as well as Marcus Canthorpe, the Farraday twins, the party help and the two security guards.

  And as, according to Bradley, the sodden guests hadn’t troubled to invite reciprocal introductions and clearly hadn’t met the super before and the help had described Bradley as ‘some pompous fat bloke’, nameless and unrecognised — that left the security guards. How likely was it that the two ex-paras, as they had described themselves, would, by the time Bradley and his wife arrived, have bothered to take more than the briefest glance at the invitation?

  According to Mickey, they had given his invitation only the most cursory of inspections. Which was a stroke of luck. They certainly hadn’t troubled to mark his name off on any list of invitees.

  Chances were they hadn’t bothered to check their list when it came to Bradley and his wife, either. By the time these late guests had arrived the security men must have both been bored out of their minds and, after the briefest glance at the invitation, would have waved the couple through on the nod. With a bit of luck, no one else amongst the guests had recognised Bradley in the short time he was there. And even if they had, the ones most likely to have been acquainted, like Ivor Bignall, the businessman and local councillor, must have suffered from a booze-blea
ry recall that would make them less likely to remember that Bradley had even been present.

  Even Bradley, much as he usually loved self-publicity, would, given the unfortunate circumstances, be sure to keep his ugly mug off the TV screen and out of the newspaper for fear someone would recognise him.

  No, Rafferty thought, if I can wangle that discreet little agreement with the mayor, I might just have a useful lever to use with Bradley on Mickey’s behalf. A lever of the ‘you keep a lid on any revelation of Bradley’s presence there that night,’ to Idris Khan, ‘and I’ll do the same for your wife’s cocaine habit’, variety. With plenty of luck, and if Bradley’s pride provided sufficient motivation for him to agree to play ball, that would place Bradley in his debt.

  Of course, such a tactic wouldn’t endear him to Bradley should it become necessary, for Mickey’s sake, to make use of his insider knowledge, but then nothing was likely to do that. And Rafferty had never much fancied being clasped to the super’s manly bosom, anyway.

  But anything that kept Mickey’s name out of the frame and gained Rafferty more time to check out the identity of the real murderer was OK in his book, even if it meant Mickey wheezing his lungs out in a damp caravan for the duration. But between their Ma’s goose-grease poultices, hot water bottles, well-laced flasks of tea and chunky casseroles, Mickey was likely to live better than he had since he’d left home. He could put up with a little damp. It had to be better than sharing an over-heated prison cell with some big, rough, bottom-bothering bruiser…

  Rafferty still wondered if Superintendent Bradley might have reason to suspect Rufus Seward of playing him for a cuckold at the party or even before; his wife might find even a man like Seward light relief after years of being married to Bradley.