CHAPTER TEN
The Holbrook Clinic was crying out for money, that much was obvious as Rafferty and Llewellyn drove through the open gates. The grounds were a lot smaller than at the Elmhurst Sanatorium, but they were badly neglected. Couch-grass pushed through the gravel of the drive and the only plants were hardy shrubs that were capable of looking after themselves. As Gilbert had said, there were no gymnasiums or Jacuzzis here.
The Victorian buildings, too, had a shabby air of rather faded grandeur and, like the minor gentry from that era, attempts were made to keep up appearances; like the freshly-painted black metal gates and the smartly-uniformed gate-porter—surface shows that cost little. But the further one penetrated, the harder the pretence was to keep up, and no attempt had been made to repoint the red brickwork or paint the many windows. It looked like the county asylum it had once been and still sported the grandiose turreted style the Victorians had favoured for such institutions.
A passing nurse escorted them to the doctor's office. They introduced themselves and with an air of distraction, Dr. Whittaker gestured at the two uncomfortable looking chairs in front of his desk. Rafferty wondered if they were chosen specially to deter visitors from staying too long and interrupting his work. They would do the job admirably, he reflected as he sat down. The stiff, presumably horsehair padding didn't give an inch. Studying the doctor, Rafferty realised that, in his youth, Nathanial Whittaker must have been quite beautiful, with his thin and elegant features and soulful dark eyes. He was still a fine-looking man, but now he had a careworn air, the thick dark hair was greying rapidly; it was quite long and when it fell over his forehead, he pushed it back with long and impatient fingers; surgeon's fingers. Rafferty wondered if he regretted his youthful vow because his research work over twenty years and more had achieved little. Perhaps it was as Sam had said, and his lack of success in the research field was because his work was driven by the grief of a personal loss rather than by a true vocation.
'You'll have heard about the murder at The Elmhurst Sanatorium, Doctor?' Rafferty began hastily, as, having sat them down, Whittaker seemed to promptly forget them. His gaze drifted down to his papers and he looked set to become immersed.
'What?' He raised his head, frowning slightly as though he had forgotten why they were there. With a sigh, he shut the file and sat more upright, looking from Rafferty to Llewellyn and back again before he nodded. 'Yes, yes. A couple of the staff mentioned it.' He glanced at Rafferty with an air of bewilderment. 'But I don't quite understand why…?'
'Just routine, Doctor,' Rafferty reassured him. 'You didn't know the victim yourself, I take it?'
'Me? No. I didn't know her.' Rather naively, he added, 'She was never a patient of mine,' as though he couldn't imagine any other circumstances in which he might know a woman other than the wife who had left him.
'I understand you were at The George on Friday night?'
Dr. Whittaker nodded again. 'Yes. I didn't want to go, there's too much work to do here to waste time attending such self-congratulatory nonsense, but I knew it was too good an opportunity to miss. I hoped someone might put in a good word for me about research funds.'
His face darkened and his sensitive features were distorted by an expression of such intense hatred, that Rafferty was taken aback. 'It was a waste of time, of course, any chance I had was ruined before I got there. Anthony Melville-Briggs saw to that, as usual. I suppose you heard all about the fight I had with him?'
Rafferty nodded faintly and waited for further enlightenment. It wasn't long in coming.
'He made sure if there were any research funds up for grabs, he'd get them. He's too clever to ever accuse outright, but I knew it was him all right. Sly innuendo and locker-room jokes are more his style. Impossible to fight against, of course. That was another reason for going to that convention. I knew I was isolated. Unfortunately, socialising's important in my line, as it is in most professions, but I couldn't face most of it, knowing he'd be there, full of urbane charm and social ease, doing his best to make me look foolish.'
He fiddled with the cover of the file, the pens and other paraphernalia on his desk, his fingers never still for a moment. It was a wonder he didn't wear himself out, Rafferty reflected.
'I was in one of the toilet cubicles at The George when I heard the latest gossip doing the rounds. Now he's implying I go in for late abortions here as a useful side-line and use the foetuses for research. That I keep them wired up to machines to keep them alive so I have a steady supply of cells for my work.
‘I was blazing. I found him, intending to have it out with him, once and for all, but he just laughed. And the madder I grew, the more contemptuous he became. In the end, I threw a punch at him. Of course I missed. His friends dragged me away. I left soon after. That would be about 10.30 p.m., I suppose.'
Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged glances. Surely the man couldn't be that naive? Didn't he realise that he had just provided them with an excellent motive for murder? Had he killed Linda Wilks hoping to incriminate Melville-Briggs? At the very least, he could be sure that Sir Anthony would get some very damaging publicity, even if he wasn't suspected of the murder. Or was he being disingenuous? Aware that there was no way the argument could be concealed, had he hoped to cast doubt on such suspicions by his very openness?
The murder victim had been pregnant, although only two months along. He pondered the possibility of getting Superintendent Bradley to agree the funding for a DNA check on the foetus and the same again for the most likely suspects. But he knew, even before he considered the possibility, that it would be a last resort for the budget-conscious Bradley and even if he agreed he’d make it plain that such a request only brought his own detective abilities into question. Rafferty, for the moment at least, put that one on the back burner.
Her father had mentioned that Linda had received a phone call around 10.30 p.m. that evening from a man. If he had been telling the truth, could it have been Whittaker phoning from the foyer of The George asking to meet her? He reminded himself to get Llewellyn to hurry along the checking of the Wilks’s telephone calls that evening. Even Bradley was unlikely to question the need for that.
Linda Wilks’s diary had been less help in tracing her clients than he'd hoped. She'd used a code; a crude, school-girlish thing, but it might have been as cryptic as The Times crossword for all the success they'd had with it. He returned to Whittaker's complaint. 'You're a psychiatrist, not a surgeon. Why should anyone believe…?'
'Any butcher can do abortions, Inspector.'
'But surely late abortions are dangerous?'
Whittaker's dark eyes looked sadly into his. 'Don't you know? Apart from my other evil habits I'm supposed to offer these late abortions to desperate women—drug addicts, the homeless, the dregs of society; the implication being that I wouldn't worry if they died.’
He stopped fiddling with his desk furniture and looked Rafferty in the eye. ‘Melville-Briggs knew very well that I've tended to cater for the poorer, more wretched elements of society, especially since my wife—' He broke off for a moment and a shudder seemed to pass through him before he began again, his expression anguished.
'He always managed to add a certain measure of truth to his lies.' With a sigh, he glanced down at his fingers where they clutched at the file. Slowly, he straightened them out, but almost at once they involuntarily tightened their grip again. 'The evidence was all circumstantial, but people would wonder if there might be some truth in the rest.'
Rafferty was wondering about that himself and he looked at Whittaker with new interest.
Whittaker laughed mirthlessly and Rafferty guessed his unfortunately open face had betrayed his thoughts.
'There's no need to look at me like that, Inspector. It's not true. You can search the place if you like. Besides', his mouth turned down. 'Even if I'd contemplated such research, I wouldn't have the money for it. Do you know how much such equipment would cost? He could afford it, of course. The work I do is far m
ore valuable, yet he's the one who gets the funding. And for what? That stupid study of the drug-addictive personality, while I'm starved of funds for vital research. I could tell them the type of people who become drug-addicts; it's the weak, the stupid, the desperate and the gullible. I sympathise with them, I treat them, after all, but their illnesses are self-inflicted. I don't know if you're aware of this, em, Inspector, but my late father had Alzheimer's disease. He—'
Rafferty nodded. 'I heard about your father, Doctor. I sympathise. My grandmother went the same way. It's a terrible thing to have to watch a loved one go like that.'
Whittaker gave him a grim nod. 'A man like my father could have had many useful years ahead of him—valuable years of helping others, saving lives, easing suffering. Instead, he was condemned to an undignified and degrading end. Sometimes, when I see how easily Melville-Briggs gets his hands on research funds, I despair.'
'But there's plenty of research going on in that field now. Aren't they finding some interesting results with—?' Human foetuses, he had been about to say before he thought better of it.
Whittaker nodded. 'But that's other people's research. Not mine. I want to contribute something. Something important. It would make up for a lot.'
'Does it matter who finds the cure as long as it's found?' Rafferty asked gently.
'It matters to me, Inspector.'
From Whittaker's taut face, it mattered very much. Melville-Briggs's accusation against him was beginning to look as though it might have a little more substance than Rafferty had originally thought. This man might just stop at nothing to nobble a rival, particularly one whom he had good reason to hate. Rafferty cleared his throat. 'Er, to get back to the night of the murder, Sir. You said you left The George early?'
'Yes. If I'd stayed and got drunk, which is what I felt like doing, I'd have probably murdered the bastard.' He stopped abruptly, as if he had just realised what he’d said.
Rafferty wondered if he'd murdered Linda Wilks instead, leaving her body on his enemy's doorstep; an apt revenge for Melville-Briggs, that user of women. 'Where did you go, Doctor, when you left The George?'
'I came back here and continued with my work. Better than hitting the bottle, I thought.
'Did anyone see you once you left The George?'
'I don't believe so.' Whittaker raised his head as though he had suddenly wondered why he was being questioned about his movements. 'Why do you ask?'
Rafferty stared at him, once again wondering if Whittaker could really be that naive. Circumstances were again building a case around Nathanial Whittaker and this time not simply for questionable professional activities, but for murder.
Melville-Briggs had forcefully implied that Whittaker was capable of the most desperate measures in order to get back at him. Rafferty had assumed that Sir Anthony suffered from paranoia. Now he wasn't so sure. 'A young woman has been murdered, Doctor,' Rafferty reminded him softly. 'We need to question everyone, however remotely connected.'
'And you suspect me?' Nathanial Whittaker gave an incredulous laugh. 'God,' he demanded roughly of the ceiling, 'what else can that bastard do to me?'
Rafferty shuffled on the hard chair, his own suspicions making him uncomfortable. Whittaker's wife had left him, his work, to which he had devoted a lifetime, was not going well, and he had to suffer the derision and public success of a man he regarded with contempt. Whittaker was a man frustrated in both his personal and professional life. Had that frustration and resentment led him to murder?
Linda Wilks had been one of society's dregs, as described by Melville-Briggs. And she had been pregnant. Put the two together and you had the ideal victim for Whittaker if he chose to make use of her. Had Whittaker been the medical man who had phoned her? Had she met him and sought his help to get rid of the baby? Perhaps, through contacts at the Elmhurst Sanatorium, she had heard about the rumours that Dr. Melville-Briggs had spread about his work and mentioned them. Even if he hadn't met her with the firm intention of killing her, it was possible this had brought back the fury raised earlier that evening. Had he struck out at her in a blind rage? Had he, with a dead body on his hands, done some quick thinking and mutilated her? He had access to a key to the gate so would have no trouble gaining entrance to the hospital grounds.
But if the murder had happened like that, it smacked more of premeditation than sudden rage, for he'd have had to obtain the keys before he met her, knowing full well why he would need them. If he'd merely made the appointment with Linda for sexual gratification, he would hardly choose to meet her on the enemy's doorstep. Rafferty could imagine the play old Tony would make of that if Whittaker was caught with a prostitute.
Rafferty wondered about his relationship with Gwen Parry as he gazed at the now bent greying head. It appeared very one-sided. She typed up his research notes and made herself available on the occasions when he required an escort, but to Rafferty it seemed Whittaker made nothing more of her than a convenience and she was apparently happy to let him. A strange relationship.
Whittaker had left The George early and alone and had seen no-one. And he had a big grudge against Melville-Briggs. Means, motive and opportunity, as the crime writers put it. Now Rafferty gave the nod to Llewellyn to take up the questioning.
'Dr. Whittaker?' The still handsome head rose and bleak eyes gazed back at him. 'I'm sorry that this has been a painful experience for you, Sir,' murmured Llewellyn softly, with every evidence of sincerity. 'But it is necessary, I hope you understand that?' Whittaker nodded. 'I believe you escorted Miss Gwendoline Parry to the dinner at The George?'
Again Whittaker just nodded. It was almost as though he had lost interest in the conversation. But Llewellyn's next words regained his attention.
'I understand you called round to Miss Parry's home on the Saturday morning after the murder?'
Nathanial Whittaker stared at him. 'How did you know that?'
'You were seen,' Llewellyn replied, without elaborating. 'Did you often call at Miss Parry's home?'
'No. Not—not often.'
'What sort of relationship do you and Miss Parry have?'
'We're—friends, I suppose you'd call it.'
'Not lovers?' Rafferty put in.
The suggestion seemed to horrify him. 'Certainly not.' Whittaker blinked rapidly. 'I fail to see—'
'You're both adults, both free,' Rafferty went on. 'There's nothing to stop you.'
'My relationship with Miss Parry wasn't like that, I assure you. We were friends, nothing more.' He frowned. 'Surely Miss Parry hasn't given you the impression that she was any more to me? I thought she understood. My work…' His voice trailed off and he looked embarrassed.
Poor Miss Parry, thought Rafferty. It was obvious that Nathanial Whittaker's intentions towards here were only too honourable, if a little selfish. Had she been hoping his intentions would grow a little more dishonourable? A little more passionate? He had abandoned her at the dinner, seemingly without a thought, which indicated that his feelings about her were just as he had described. He had neglected his wife, who had apparently been quite a looker, a wife, whom everyone that Rafferty had spoken to, had claimed Whittaker loved, as much as he was capable of loving anyone. Had Gwen Parry really believed she would fare better at his hands? Like Miss Robinson, Rafferty's old school teacher, she was doomed to bitter disappointment. Research used up all his passion. He would have none left for the Gwen Parry's of this world.
Llewellyn continued his questioning. 'Perhaps you'd like to tell us why you called round that particular morning?'
The question seemed to trouble him. He gazed around the office as though seeking an answer in the dark and dusty corners. 'I—Miss Parry was typing up some research notes of mine. I—I wanted to see how she was getting on.'
'But she could hardly have made a start on them by then, surely? I understood that she intended to spend the whole of the weekend on them? Had taken a day's leave to finish the job.'
'Had she?' Dr. Whittaker looked startled, the
n annoyed as though this latest evidence of Gwendoline Parry's devotion was altogether too much.
'So why did you go round there?' repeated Llewellyn doggedly, when Whittaker made no attempt to answer his question.
Whittaker became agitated at his persistence. 'Why are you asking me all these questions? Does it matter why I went round to Miss Parry's house? What has that got to do with this murder?'
'That's what I'm trying to establish, Doctor,' replied Llewellyn. 'You see, Miss Parry's hospital keys have gone missing. Naturally, we need to find out what happened to them. Did you see them, by any chance?'
'Me?' Whittaker's fingers stilled. It was as though he had finally realised the precariousness of his position and was worried about betraying any anxiety. Ironically, the unnatural stillness achieved the opposite of what he intended.
'Miss Parry wondered if they could have fallen out of her bag into the boot of your car. We thought that might have been the reason you had called round to her flat.'
Whittaker slumped back in his chair, as though he no longer had the strength to fight off their suspicions, as if he no longer even cared. 'There's no need to be so delicate, Sergeant. What you really want to know is if I stole them in order to gain entrance to the Elmhurst Sanatorium. Isn't this what all these questions are about?'
Llewellyn didn't deny it. 'And did you?
'No. I did not.' Whittaker’s lips thinned to a mulish line.
They'd got all they were going to get out of him today that was clear. Rafferty stood up. 'You understand, Doctor, that we'll have to speak to you again?' Whittaker nodded mutely.
As they left, Rafferty looked back. Whittaker was still sitting at his desk, but now his papers were ignored and he stared into the middle distance with haunted eyes. Rafferty shook his head sadly. In many ways, he could sympathise with Nathanial Whittaker; both their marriages had failed because their work and their wives were incompatible. But Whittaker wasn't tormented by guilt, his wife was still living, unlike Angie, who although dead now for two years, was in some ways still with him, still reaching out from beyond the grave to wound him.
Into his mind flashed a vivid picture of his wife as she lay dying in the hospital. It should have been a time when mutual regrets softened the resentments, but even in death, Angie hadn't been gentle. She had used her remaining breath to ensure the time of her dying lingered painfully in Rafferty's memory. He should be happy now, she had told him, now she would no longer be able to come between him and his precious job. What wife could make a greater sacrifice? It seemed she had been determined to make her mark on him in death far more effectively than she had managed in life.
Because he had wished death on her during one of their rows—had actually said that he had wished her dead, so when she had received a death sentence from the cancer, she had accused him of causing it, as a kind of wish-fulfilment.
'"Heav'n hath no rage, like love to hatred turn'd,"' Llewellyn murmured philosophically from behind the wheel as they drove back to the station.
'God, are you off again?’ Rafferty scowled.
'"Heav'n hath no rage, like love to hatred turn'd,"' Llewellyn repeated, but before he could continue, Rafferty, getting his sergeant’s drift, voiced the rest of the quotation for him.
'"Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd."'
'William Congreve,' Llewellyn added sotto voce.
'Is that what you think?'
'I was just wondering if Miss Parry finally realised after Dr Whittaker abandoned her on Friday night that she meant nothing to him. I wondered if she could have lied about losing her keys. Whether, rather than trying to shield him, she's been deliberately trying to lead our suspicions to him as a punishment for not desiring her.'
'You're a deep one, aren't you?'
Llewellyn shrugged wordlessly.
'Perhaps she killed the girl herself,' Rafferty threw in a suggestion of his own for good measure. He didn't want Llewellyn getting above himself in the ideas department. 'And got back at both Melville-Briggs and Whittaker, both of whom probably used her in different ways. After all, she was hardly a prominent guest at The George and unlikely to be missed.'
'But she had no transport,' Llewellyn objected. 'She'd hardly take a taxi from The George to the hospital, tell the driver to wait while she killed the girl, and then calmly get the taxi driver to take her back as if nothing had happened. Apart from any other consideration, she’d have been covered in blood.'
‘Valid points, granted. But, I think we ought to investigate Miss Parry's alibi a little deeper. She picked up her car from the hospital sometime over the weekend. Why not that night? She could have overheard Whittaker arranging the meeting with Linda and been overcome with jealous rage. She could have paid the taxi off at a reasonable distance from the hospital and walked, then murdered Linda and driven away in her own car.' He sighed. 'Perhaps we ought to check out the cab firms? Check too, to see if anyone at the hospital noticed her car missing from the car park on Saturday morning.'
Llewellyn nodded and asked, 'So you think it's a case of "Dux femina fact"?'
'What?' Rafferty scowled again.
Llewellyn sighed. 'Or "Cherchez la femme", if you prefer.'
Rafferty preferred plain English and told him so.