A Thrust to the Vitals Read Online Free PDF Page A

imploring, Bambi gaze, though what the manager imagined he could do to guarantee continued discretion on the murder front goodness only knew…
    Jonty Reynolds was far from being a jaunty Jonty at the moment, as his hand-wringing testified. After his first, fraught few questions, he had asked little more. Probably afraid of the answers he would receive, as Rafferty presumed Mr Reynolds had managed, since they had last spoken, to conjure up for himself far more colourful examples of the publicity likely to spring from the murder of such a prominent guest than even a cynical policeman could have provided. Rafferty, fearing tears weren’t far away, interrupted Reynolds’ hand-wringing to remind him, ‘You said we could use one of the ballrooms to question the reception’s remaining guests. Perhaps we could see it now?’
    In his late forties and clearly with fears of being ‘let go’ by his employers on his mind, Jonty Reynolds, his forehead beaded with the sweat of acute anxiety, nodded, and led them into the even more impressive Edwardian splendours of the now deserted main ballroom. They found themselves surrounded by the detritus of some other party’s long-since concluded festivities. The ballroom, like Seward’s suite, was still awaiting the attentions of the cleaning staff, who, warned that the police would be using it for their interviews, had been told to keep out. The leftovers from the buffet and the bar were all around them, scattered on the floor and tables. The fiftieth wedding anniversary congratulatory banners were still in place for Cyril and Cynthia.
    Rafferty, wondering at the likelihood of current newlyweds staying the course over such a time, and feeling the need to acknowledge such an achievement, from a nearby table plucked a glass still containing dregs of white wine and raised it towards the banner in a silent toast to the golden couple.
    Llewellyn, the particular, seemed subdued by the abandoned and curling remains surrounding them. His nostrils faintly flared as if, even so far from the ground, he could detect the smell of bad drains.
    Rafferty grinned to himself. He was only too aware that the Welshman could never abide such mess. Strange that he should choose such a mess-encountering career as the police in which to earn his living. Ironic, too, that he should have the far from tidy Rafferty as his senior officer.
    Certainly, the mess didn’t trouble Rafferty one jot - rather the reverse, in fact. He felt quite at home. Besides, by now he was absolutely ravenous and happy to help himself to the curling remnants of yet another celebratory party buffet in the hope this Oliver Twist act would spur the manager into offering them something to eat.
    Thankfully, once the distraught night manager spotted how starving was his late-arriving and unexpected guest, he was obliging and wily enough to attempt some damage limitation – Rafferty had met him previously, during another murder investigation – and to temporarily put aside his hand-wringing and get on the right side of the investigating policeman.
    He enquired as to Rafferty’s food preferences and swiftly organized the late-night kitchen staff into rustling up a huge plateful of beef and horseradish sandwiches. These, fortunately, were of policeman preferred proportions rather than the hotel’s normal, more dainty fare.
    Rafferty wasted no time in getting himself outside most of these sandwiches before the guests still awaiting his questions had the opportunity to ruin his appetite.
    In spite of Rafferty’s enthusiastic encouragement that his partner follow the example of their free-loading boss and the rest of the party guests and ‘fill his boots’, as it was likely to be a long night and even longer day, Llewellyn seemed to have lost his appetite.
    When Llewellyn still declined, Rafferty shrugged, said, ‘Suit yourself,’ and reached for another sandwich.
    Once the guest list and Seward’s address book had been photo copied so the