A Thrust to the Vitals

Chapter Two-1

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 back 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, 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 tiring 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. They 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 favourites 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 computerised 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.’

After a few more questions, he asked Llewellyn to escort Marcus Canthorpe back to the commandeered suite where the rest of the late-lingering guests were still sequestered. And after he had informed the hovering manager that he could have his office back, Rafferty returned to the penthouse murder scene to study it further himself.

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