***
Rafferty looked at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Damn Llewellyn. It was eleven o’clock; he should be back by now. The Welshman had rung yesterday afternoon to say he would have to spend the night in town. Some of the staff at Sir Anthony's London consulting-rooms had left quite recently and he was having trouble tracking them down. But there surely couldn't be that many people employed in one doctor's rooms?
Not for the first time in his career, Rafferty cursed his impetuosity. It was rather a pity that he'd given way to the satisfaction of telling Nurse Wright that Smythe hadn't been arrested for murder. She wouldn't have known any different if he'd kept quiet, as Smythe was off duty for a few days and wouldn't have been expected at the hospital in any case.
The element of surprise might have been useful when he saw Sir Anthony. Still, he mused, it was still possible he didn't know, as he was attending a conference in the Midlands and wasn't expected back till lunchtime today.
Rafferty had agreed that Llewellyn should kill two birds with one stone as it were, by going to see the Melville-Briggs's son at his business—not that it seemed likely that the effete Timothy, as so graphically described by Gilbert, would be likely to have any doings with a prostitute, leastways, not a female one. But they might as well check it out. Though if Llewellyn was wasting time chatting about vintage cars at that garage…
This was the only positive lead they had—slight though it might be, and Rafferty didn't want to tackle Melville-Briggs till Llewellyn got back, only too aware how easily the supercilious doctor made his hackles rise.
The frustration only increased his impatience. For, otherwise, their investigations had scored a big fat zero. They had yet to find the murder weapon or Linda Wilks's clothes, and in spite of the press coverage, no-one but Smythe had seen the car parked outside the hospital. Added to that, the house-to-house had yielded nothing in the way of more information, and no-one calling herself Miranda had so far come forward.
Too late, he realised he should have gone to London himself. It would have been better than hanging around waiting for Llewellyn to dig the dirt—if he was even capable of something so grubby. Though surely, even Llewellyn realised that they needed answers and needed them quickly.
Pressure was building from every angle – press, public, and hospital staff – especially its leading light. Once Melville-Briggs discovered that Simon Smythe wasn't going to be charged with the crime, he would be sure to make his displeasure felt. He had made it clear enough right from the start that he wanted a quick and convenient solution and Rafferty wondered if his only reason was concern about what the bad publicity would do to the hospital and its profits.
Had the girl in the pub really been this Miranda come down to see him? It seemed possible as, apart from Mrs. Devine, no-one else admitted to knowing the girl before that evening. Not that Melville-Briggs had either, of course—yet.
Miranda was a loose end and he didn't like loose ends. He consulted his watch again, with the same result as before; its hands seemed to be crawling.