Dead Before Morning

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE'Is it yourself?'

Detective Inspector Joseph Aloysius Rafferty winced as his mother's voice threatened to pierce his eardrum. And, although briefly tempted to plead not guilty, he had perforce to agree that yes, it was himself. Surely, he demanded of his reflection in the hall mirror, a hangover, a murder and his mother all in one morning were more than any man should be expected to cope with? Especially at six thirty and after less than four hours sleep. 'I can't stop, Ma. Sergeant Llewellyn will be picking me up any minute.'

'I won't keep you then, son, but I didn't know who else to turn to and what with the wedding and all...’

Rafferty frowned. News of the murder had already taken their toll on his hung-over wits, but the word "wedding" on his Ma's tongue was even more worrying and he struggled to get his brain into gear. 'What wedding?'

'I know Jack's only a distant cousin,' she remarked briskly, 'but surely you haven't forgotten that he's over from Dublin to marry my niece, Deirdre?'

That wedding. How could he have forgotten that Jailhouse Jack, the world's most incompetent criminal was preparing to plight his troth and pass his genes on to the next generation? What a wonderful addition to a policeman's close family the bridegroom would be. Thank God the happy couple would be going back to Ireland straight after the wedding and surely even Jack could stay out of trouble for the few weeks he'd be—

'He's in a spot of bother, Joseph.' After shattering his hopes, his mother didn't pause for either of them to catch their breath, but went on to explain that his troublesome cousin was being held at the Harcombe nick on suspicion of lifting a lorry load of whisky. 'I know what you're going to say,' she continued before he could get a word in, 'but this time I'm convinced he didn't do it.'

That would be a first, Rafferty concluded cynically, thankful that between them, the Irish Sea and a three times removed cousinship, usually kept Jack from embarrassing him.

'It would be a shame if he got put away right before the wedding. Can you go and see him and sort it out, son? I wouldn't ask, only I've had Deirdre here half the night crying her eyes out. She's scared she'll have to cancel the wedding.'

Rafferty snorted. Wasn't a murder enough, he wondered, without being expected to sort out Jack's little problem? Especially as he knew that as soon as he set foot in the Harcombe nick and revealed his mission of mercy, the s**t would hit the fan.

His family was the limit, especially as some of them were of the opinion that if they must have a copper in the family, he might at least have the decency to be a bent one.

He consoled himself with the thought that he hadn't made a firm date with the looming fates. Jack could cool his heels for a bit. After all, he now remembered, the wedding was still two weeks off. He had plenty of time.

'It's not everyone that avoids matrimony like you, Joseph,' his mother told him tartly.

Rafferty broke in quickly before she got into her stride. The hoped-for remarriage of her braw boy was ever close to his mother's heart. 'Now Ma,' he warned. 'Don't go getting any ideas. I'm perfectly happy as I am.'

She treated this statement with withering contempt. 'Don't talk so foolish. How can a man on his own be happy? No, what you need is a wife. Your Uncle Pat's girl, Maureen, for instance. She'd be a fine catch for any man. I only want to see you settled.' Cunningly, she injected a quavering note of pathos into her voice. 'I'd like grandchildren before I die.'

'You've got eleven grandchildren already, Ma, and another on the way,' he reminded her. 'How many more do you want?'

'I may have a dozen,' she retorted briskly, imminent death evidently forgotten. 'But they're none of them Raffertys; they're all your sisters' children. I want one or two from my eldest son, my greatest pride. How else can the name get carried on?'

'I'm sure the fifty odd Raffertys in the phone book will do their best to continue the line,' he observed. 'Why don't you call and spur them on a little?' And leave him alone.

He glanced out of the window of his Essex flat and shivered. The day was bleak, the mist off the North Sea was thick and he could barely see the shoreline. Unfortunately, he had no trouble making out the thinly-handsome outline of his sergeant's face as he turned the car on to the forecourt. Llewellyn consulted his watch, and then gazed up at Rafferty's window with a suffering-bravely-borne expression.

Rafferty scowled. It was going to be one of those days. He felt it in his bones. 'I really must be off,' he told her firmly. 'Llewellyn's here.' He paused, wishing he didn't have to tell her, but he'd never hear the end of it if she had to find out from the papers. Taking a deep breath, he told her quickly, 'There's been a murder and—'

His Ma gasped and he murmured a soothing, 'Mmm.' But his attempt at calm nonchalance was singularly unsuccessful, and he went on briskly, 'Rather a nasty one. A young girl.' According to the desk sergeant, the girl had been brutally battered, her face left in such a state that it would have looked more at home on a butcher's slab. 'She was found at that private psychiatric hospital at Elmhurst and—'

'A loony bin?' His Ma's swift intake of breath echoed down the line. 'It'll be one of them dangerous cyclepaths escaped. They're always doing it. The people in charge of these places should be locked up. You stay well away, son,' she advised firmly. 'Let that superintendent sort it out.'

'I am a policeman, Ma. And I'll be in charge of this one. They just promoted me, remember?’ Still smarting from his superior sergeant’s last correction of his own imperfect use of the English language, Rafferty said, ‘And it’s psychopath, not cyclepath. Not that he necessarily is one,’ he hastily added. ‘Besides, just because the girl was found in a psychiatric hospital, doesn't mean one of the patients did it, you know.'

'Doesn't mean to say they didn't, either,' she retorted. 'Very sly some of them. And they expect you to catch him?' She tutted worriedly. 'You watch your step my lad.'

He intended to. 'I've got to go.' No doubt the rest of the team would already be there working hard and calling him rude names in his absence. 'About Jack, Ma, stop worrying. I'll see to it.' He didn't have much choice.

To his relief, she kept any further anxieties to herself. 'Thanks son.' Now pride edged some of the worry out of her voice. 'I'll tell Deirdre that "My son, The Police Inspector's got it in hand, and Jack's as good as free".'

Rafferty wished he shared his Ma's confidence that springing the prospective bridegroom would be as easy as catching him usually was, but he made no comment.

'Well, I won't make you late for your murder. Look after yourself, Joseph, and don't take any nonsense from any of them high and mighty doctors at that hospital. Arrest the lot of them if you have to.'

'I'll bear it in mind, Ma,' he told her dryly. 'Good-bye.'

***

The constable beckoned the car forward and as the heavy hospital gates thudded together behind them, Llewellyn's dark eyes took on a mystic light as he remarked ominously, 'There'll be trouble over this one. Mark my words.'

Having delivered this cheering prognostication, he said no more. Rafferty, determined that the Welshman's black prophecy wouldn't undermine his confidence, did his best to ignore him.

He was helped in this by his first sight of the house. He came from a long line of builders and house renovators, and its classical Georgian elegance – which the well-tended grounds framed so perfectly – brought Rafferty a few precious moments of delight in a day unlikely to contain many pleasures. The handsome, seven-bay house was built of pale Caen stone, a popular import in such a stone-impoverished part of the country. The projecting central section was crowned by a graceful pediment and the ground floor, raised above the semi-basement, was reached by stone steps. Slender pillars flanked the canopied front door and they were flanked in turn by single windows with two more on either side of the recessed sections of the house. Perfection.

Just then, the sun came out from behind the early morning cloud, and he stared, as all thirteen of the large sash windows seemed to wink at him, like all-seeing eyes, as though mocking his ability to discover what they had witnessed in the night; a sight undoubtedly shared by the secretive, half-closed dormer eyes of the attic floor. The optical illusion fanned the flames of the superstition that Llewellyn had already successfully kindled and as they passed the house, he switched his gaze determinedly ahead of him as his Welsh prophet of doom drew up behind the earlier arrivals.

'Dr Dally's here,' Llewellyn remarked unnecessarily with a sidelong glance at Rafferty. 'He must be nearly finished by now.'

'We all know quick and speedy doesn't always win the race, Sergeant,' Rafferty retorted, stung by the dig. 'Not that Sam Dally's either when it comes to letting us have some results.' Not for the first, nor the last time that day, he reflected that it was a pity the girl had chosen a mental hospital in which to get herself murdered; on his first serious case since his promotion too. Now he wondered uneasily if an unpropitious fate was about to enjoy some fun and games at his expense. It wouldn't be the first time.

As they walked round the shrouding screen, Dr Dally raised a shaggy grey eyebrow teasingly. 'Late again, Rafferty?'

Dally's jocular greeting merely earned a scowl, but as Rafferty got his first view of the corpse, he had to swallow hard, again regretting his previous night’s alcohol intake.

The girl was lying on her back and someone had certainly made mincemeat of her. What might once have been a pretty face was now a soggy mess—her teeth were gone, her eyes were gone, her nose was gone—all smashed to a bloody pulp. It looked as if someone had taken a sledge-hammer to her. 'The press will have a field day with this one,' he remarked grimly.

Considering it was April, the previous night had been quite balmy, yet surely he was only imagining the sickly scent of corruption? Behind him, Llewellyn remarked in funereal tones, '"So will we all decay. The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet."'

Rafferty gave him a jaundiced look. 'Thank you, Dylan Thomas.'

'Edward Thomas, actually, sir,' Llewellyn corrected and launched into a mini lecture, apparently believing that it was his duty to lighten the darkness of his boss's ignorance. 'Killed in action in World War One. Then there's R.S. Thomas, the Welsh vicar. He—'

'All right, all right,' Rafferty broke in, irritated as usual by Llewellyn's display of erudition; sure he did it out of some deep, mischievous desire to get under his skin. 'This is neither the time nor the place to set about completing my education, Sergeant. I'll thank you to remember that.'

His puce complexion regained some of its usually fresh colour as he put Llewellyn in his place, but it drained away again as he gazed at the dead girl. Poor b***h, he thought. Whoever, whatever she was, she surely hadn't deserved such an end. Curiously, the naked body was unmarked and as his eyes travelled over the slim cadaver, he wondered at the unfathomable ways of women. Why would a natural blonde dye her hair black?

'The first priority is going to be to find out who she was,' he remarked to Llewellyn. 'Tell Fraser I want her prints run through the computer yesterday.' He hoped to God they were on file. If they weren’t, it could be a nightmare to attempt to identify her. He turned to the doctor. 'What can you tell me, Sam?'

'Little enough, Rafferty, little enough. Sam's plump body rocked back on its heels and, behind his spectacles, his eyes lit up with relish as he watched Rafferty's face. 'You look a bit green, my boy.' He dug his hand in his back pocket and pulled out a small silver flask. 'Have a medicinal nip. Doctor's orders,' he added firmly as Rafferty hesitated.

Forgetting his scruples, Rafferty reached gratefully for his medicine and took a swig. 'Should be on prescription.' He grinned as the alcohol hit the spot. 'Irish?'

Sam Dally snorted. 'It's only the best that the Highlands can offer. I can see it's wasted on you.' Taking the flask back, he had a quick nip himself. 'Ah. That's better. Nothing like a hair of the dog for setting a man to rights. And I should know.'

Rafferty brightened, glad to know he had company in his suffering. Especially when that company was in the rotund shape of the tonic toting Dally. 'I gather you had a heavy night?'

Sam nodded. 'Doctors' do at The George,' he explained. 'Annual event. Wouldn't miss it. Our erstwhile chairman's wife, Lady Evelyn Melville-Briggs organises it so it couldn't fail to go like clockwork. Shame she didn't seem to enjoy it. Not surprising she was so quiet, of course. Her old man was in a towering rage when they arrived.' He snorted. 'Some hoo-ha about the door-man. I didn't stop to listen to it.' He put the flask back in his pocket and became briskly professional. 'Been dead at least seven hours. Rigor mortis has started to set in around the head and neck. The blow to the back of the head is probably what killed her.'

Rafferty raised his eyebrows. He could have come to that conclusion for himself. Even with the body lying on its back, he could see the skull was caved in, making an amorphous mess of bone and brain. 'Could a woman have done it, do you think?'

Sam nodded. 'Wouldn't need as much strength as you'd think; only stealth to creep up on her, and then determination to keep whacking, like Lizzie Borden.'

Rafferty raised his gaze from the gory horror on the ground. At the edge of the trees, he caught sight of a well-dressed man, pacing with barely contained impatience. He nodded in his direction. 'Who's that?'

Sam followed the direction of Rafferty's gaze, and, in an echo of Llewellyn, he remarked, 'That's Trouble, Rafferty. Trouble with a capital T.' Rubbing his hands together with childish glee, he continued. 'That's the owner. Consultant Psychiatrist Dr Anthony Melville-Briggs. But you'll find plain "Sir" will do. Husband to the Lady Evelyn etc etc. I wouldn't like to be in your shoes when he finds out a lowly inspector's in charge of the case.' He gave Rafferty a sly look. 'Perhaps you should listen to your Mammy and get married again. Old Tony certainly shows what marriage can do for a man.'

Rafferty's lip curled. Sam Dally, compassionate doctor of medicine, could always be relied upon to hit a man below the belt. One marriage had been enough; his relief that Angie’s death had brought an end to their mutual unhappiness still caused him guilt. In spite of his mother's continued attempts to persuade, push and cajole him into matrimony a second time, Rafferty resisted. Still, he mused, at least it gave her less time for her other little hobby, and unlike that, her matchmaking didn't carry with it the risk of a jail sentence for the pair of them. 'Got any more unwanted advice?'

Sam shook his head. 'Why cast more pearls before swine, laddie?' he asked sweetly. He glanced again at Melville-Briggs and a beatific smile lit up his face as he set about removing the glow of the restorative whisky. 'I was at medical school with him and he barely had a bean before he married Lady Evelyn. You could see he was determined to go places even in those days.' Sam Dally took off his glasses and gave them a brisk polish before continuing. 'Well in with the Chief Constable, so I understand. Me, I don't mix in such exalted circles.'

The last remnants of Rafferty's good-humour vanished as he studied the Chief Constable's best friend. Dr. Melville-Briggs had that look of sleek self-satisfaction that only a man with the good fortune to marry money acquires. He was in his early fifties, Rafferty guessed, but had kept himself in shape. With his pure white hair swept dramatically back from his high forehead, he could have been taken for a Shakespearean actor awaiting the plaudits of the crowd after a lunch-time performance in the park. Rafferty hoped he didn't intend to indulge in any histrionics this morning, but after what Sam had said, he wasn't optimistic. Dr. Melville-Briggs's cheeks wore an unlovely hectic flush probably caused by a combination of temper and shock and Rafferty came to the depressing conclusion that the doctor was taking the crime as some kind of personal affront. But then he was rich and successful and probably imagined that his select establishment would, by its very exclusivity, be shielded from the sordid world outside his gates.

Rafferty reflected that it must have come as an unpleasant surprise to find that his little kingdom wasn't quite as inviolate as he had imagined. Then he prepared to give Melville-Briggs his second surprise of the day.