A Thrust to the Vitals Read Online Free PDF Page B

Smales, with his inherent feeling for drama, had ensured it was too late for that. Rafferty braced himself for the barrage as the remaining guests rushed forward in a body as if they were all still on an alcohol-fuelled high. And even if alcohol no longer greatly stimulated their bodies, the fumes were still evident on their breath as they demanded answers.
    Rafferty had already been provided with the guests’ names by Seward’s efficient assistant, Marcus Canthorpe, before he had been requested to rejoin them.
    Pushing himself to the fore was the imposing, grey haired, bristling and red of face, Ivor Bignall. Rafferty recognized him from the local newspaper in which he often featured. As the councillor who had organised the reception in liaison with Canthorpe, Bignall evidently felt he must take command.
    ‘You’re Inspector Rafferty, I take it?’ he began in a disconcertingly loud voice. ‘Why have we been kept here for hours? It really is quite intolerable.’
    Rafferty quietly apologised and explained the need to prioritise. And on a murder investigation the first priority was the victim and the scene of crime.
    To his surprise, Bignall immediately subsided. He simply nodded his understanding. Presumably, Rafferty supposed, as both a councillor and a businessman, Bignall understood the importance of prioritising one’s workload. At any rate, he posed no more questions for the moment.
    Rafferty also recognised his blonde, pale, though very attractive and much younger wife, Dorothea. She had elected to remain seated in the shadows beyond the suite’s twinkling Tiffany chandeliers. She appeared subdued; hardly surprising in the circumstances, of course. Presumably she had concluded that it was pointless to attempt to pose any questions — her forceful husband, given time and opportunity, being more than capable of posing all the questions either of them could desire.
    Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprising given that the mayor must have the best part of fifteen years’ advantage age-wise — Bignall allowed himself to be edged aside by Idris Khan, the town’s half-Welsh, half-Asian current mayoral incumbent. Khan was wearing his full regalia, which apparently included his much younger blonde wife, Mandy, who clung on to the back of his mayoral insignia like a limpet. Her pinpoint pupils indicated to Rafferty that she had recently been sniffing something that was rather more potent than snuff or her own mucus. Perhaps, between the drugs and the alcohol, she felt unsteady on her feet and required the support of the sturdy mayoral chain of office?
    When Idris Khan spoke, it was clear he wasn’t quite sure whether the occasion demanded he be terribly British and pukka sahib about the whole thing or whether he would be more likely to coax the required responses if he played the minority card and let his Asian half predominate. Perhaps, because he had spent most of his childhood in India, the latter won and he began to flail his arms about in a most excitable manner while directing a stream of sing-song sentences in Rafferty’s direction.
    ‘You must the inspector be,’ he addressed Rafferty. ‘This is very dreadful, dreadful thing to happen to poor Sir Seward. Very dreadful. My wife is over tired and wishes with a most strong desire, to go to her home now. As Mr Bignall said, we are waiting here these many hours and are most distressed. But let me assure you, most heartfeltly, my dear inspector, that poor dear Sir Seward’s dreadful death has nothing whatsoever at all to be doing with any of us and—’
    He was interrupted by Bignall’s big voice booming above his own. ‘Be quiet a minute, won’t you, Iddy? And don’t be silly, my dear chap. Of course it must have been one of us who killed him. I don’t know how you can even try to pretend otherwise. Who else could have done it?’
    Clearly, Ivor Bignall wasn’t one for trying the head in the sand approach. Of course, he had hit the nail squarely on its