Absolute Poison (14 page)

“Bob being Bob, had built up his hopes that this meeting would be the start of a full reconciliation. I doubt there's any chance of that now. As he told you, Mr Barstaple called him into his office just as he was leaving to meeting his wife and kept him back for half-an-hour.”

Rafferty hunched forward. “Let me get this clear. Are you saying that Clive Barstaple knew about this meeting and deliberately wrecked it?” From what Rafferty had learned of the victim's character it was the sort of thing he might try.

Whether to conceal her real feelings about Barstaple or because she really felt she owed him her loyalty, when asked to do the dirty on him, she immediately went into denial. “Oh, no, I'm sure Mr Barstaple wouldn't have done such a thing. Admittedly, the state of Bob's marriage was common knowledge in the office and so was the lunch date he'd arranged and his hopes for a reconciliation, but I really don't believe that Mr Barstaple would deliberately prevent him going.”

As though she recognised that this last took some swallowing, she gave up trying to defend the indefensible and instead went on the attack. “But it doesn't really matter, does it, whether Mr Barstaple knew of this meeting or not? Surely, the question is whether Bob Harris thought Mr Barstaple had deliberately ruined his hopes?”

She had a point, Rafferty conceded. Though it seemed unlikely that Harris had brought poison into the office on the, admittedly, fifty/fifty chance that Barstaple would do just that. And although he couldn't say that he hadn't, Amy Glossop's spiteful tittle-tattle made him point it out. “He would hardly have come to the office that day prepared to poison Mr Barstaple. He can't have been sure he'd have reason to do so.”

Artlessly, she told him, “But he had other reasons. Lots of them; weeks of worry as to whether he would keep his job, the accompanying stress and strain. He was never the most competent man and I'm afraid Mr Barstaple found poor Bob's indifferent performance something of a trial. He often complained to me about it. And then I know Bob's ulcers give him a great deal of pain.”

Perhaps she felt she had burned her bridges and might as well tell all. For whatever reason, her earlier show of reluctance had certainly vanished and now she proceeded to strengthen the case against Harris. “I once read of a case where a man took to carrying poison around with him as some kind of talisman, as a morale-boosting reminder that he could rid himself of his tormentor at any time, without ever intending to actually use it. Then his boss did something that this man regarded as beyond the pale and he killed him.”

Her words reminded Rafferty that Bob Harris had mentioned he'd got a glass of milk from the kitchen that day for his lunch, and that he'd got it immediately after his little chat with Barstaple. If he'd come prepared, the impulse to inject the poison through the plastic bottom of the yoghurt carton would take a matter of moments.

They already knew that Bob Harris had been alone in Barstaple's office that afternoon, which meant that he had had the opportunity to both administer the poison and swap the yoghurt containers in the bin. And it had been his name on the rota that afternoon for making the tea for the other staff. He had made this after Amy Glossop had made Clive Barstaple's, whose needs always took precedence.

Admittedly, according to Amy Glossop, whom he was beginning to dislike all over again, two more of the staff had had similar opportunities. But, so far, Harris was the only one Barstaple was known to have damaged that important six hours before he had died; the six hours the particular poison took to produce its deadly effect.

Of course it might mean nothing. They'd already concluded that the poison could have been put into the carton of yoghurt at any time. Still, for Harris, it was a damaging discovery. It was also interesting that Amy Glossop should try so hard to incriminate her colleagues. Was resentment of them her only motive? Or was there some other demon driving her? She was the type to go in for eavesdropping. In order to have something to offer Barstaple so that he would give her preferential treatment, she would have had no choice but to poke and pry. Maybe all her poking and prying had revealed Barstaple's true intentions with regard to her future; that he intended to rationalize her, too. How would such a woman feel at the discovery? Rafferty wondered. Enraged and vengeful? Or fearful and despairing?

It was impossible to know. Maybe it would be a mixture of all four. He just wished they could find the damn rationalization report that Barstaple had been working on. Then they'd know for certain what Barstaple's intentions had been not only for Amy Glossop but for the rest of the staff.

Llewellyn polite as ever, said as they stood up to go, “You've been very helpful, Ms Glossop. If there's anything else you remember…“

Rafferty was sure there was plenty, but he suspected she would dole out any information piece by piece so as to increase the period of her self-importance.

To his surprise, he found he had misjudged her. And as if she now regretted directing their suspicions to Bob Harris who would make poor sport, she said, “In spite of what I've said to you, I can't believe Bob Harris would have the gumption to kill. Besides, it wasn't Bob who had the furious row with Clive. That was Mr Gallagher. And he'd have the gumption for anything.”

Rafferty and
Llewellyn glanced at one another then sat down again. Rafferty wondered how much more tittle-tattle Amy Glossop had stored in her mouse-brown head. He suddenly felt impelled to warn her that if she knew anything else that might be damaging to a possible murderer she ought to tell them now.

But she insisted there was nothing else. He wasn't sure he believed her.

“When was this argument?” he asked.

Amy Glossop paused as if considering. Rafferty guessed this was for show. She probably knew to the minute and had hugged the information to herself since she had known of Barstaple's murder. “It was last Friday. After everybody else had gone home.” Her bright brown eyes narrowed. “I suppose Mr Gallagher waited till then so there would be no witnesses. He didn't count on me coming back.”

Rafferty wondered what Gallagher had done to earn this stab in the back and thought he could guess. Amy Glossop was a soured, embittered woman. An attractive, outgoing male like Hal Gallagher would have found it hard to hide his contempt for her; that would be enough to earn her hatred.

Bob Harris wouldn't be much of a threat to her sexual dignity; he would, Rafferty thought again, be poor sport. Not that that had stopped her supplying them with damaging information. But Hal Gallagher was a different matter. No doubt that was why she had saved her most damaging evidence till last.

Rafferty eased his buttocks off the sagging cushion, and asked, “Do you know what this argument was about?”

She looked disappointed to have to admit that she didn't. “I'd already left the office once, you see, but had forgotten my umbrella. And as I'm sure one of these cleaners stole the last one I'd left here, I came back for it. I heard them as I came up the stairs. Going at it hammer and tongs, they were. They were both shouting, though, of course, Mr Gallagher has such a huge bellow that his voice quite drowned out whatever Clive was saying. It was only as I reached the top of the stairs that Hal Gallagher paused for breath and I was able to make out what Clive said. It certainly shut Hal Gallagher up.”

Amy Glossop obviously had a heightened sense of drama because now she paused and looked expectantly at them. Obligingly Rafferty offered the required prompt.“And what did he say?”

“I'll never forget it.” She looked as though she was preparing to break off again, but a glance at Rafferty's impatient expression had her hurrying on. “Clive told Hal Gallagher he'd better be careful as he—Clive, that is—wasn't the only one with something to hide. And that if it came to it he had something on Hal Gallagher that was far more damaging than a few questionable deals, which anyway, Mr Plumley already knew about. Perks, he called them.”

Amy Glossop pulled a face. “That's all I caught. They must have heard me then as they both shut up. At least, Hal Gallagher slammed out of Clive's office right away. Though he was still at his own desk when I left.” She broke off again and gazed from one to the other eagerly as she suggested, “Perhaps he'd already decided on more drastic measures. After all, Clive's dead. Whatever damaging knowledge he had on Hal Gallagher died with him—and less than a week after their row. Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?”

Amy
Glossop had given them a lot to chew over. And as they left her flat and drove to the offices of Allways Contract Cleaners, Rafferty remarked on the last thing she had told them.

“So, now we know that not only was the victim a thoroughly nasty piece of work and into strange sexual practices, but that he was also a bit of a crook.” He paused, then added mischievously, “the poor unhappy bastard.”

Llewellyn, as expected, failed to rise to the bait. As he turned the car into Queen Street and past the front of the police station, Rafferty asked, “So, what do you reckon Barstaple could have had on Gallagher?”

Llewellyn gave a tiny shrug. “I've no idea. Maybe we'll never find out now as I shouldn't think Gallagher is about to tell us. He may even attempt to deny the argument ever happened, though I doubt that. He'd be more likely to invent something plausible to explain it as he must know Amy Glossop would tell us about it as soon as possible. He must have been surprised that she didn't do so this morning. The delay has given him time to come up with something good.”

Rafferty nodded. He suspected that Gallagher would have plenty of street-smarts. He'd certainly be smart enough to come up with a plausible reason for the argument; something that didn't provide him with a motive for murder.

Either way, they'd have to question him again. They'd have to question them all again. Certainly, vindictive or not, as far as it went, Amy Glossop's evidence had the ring of truth. It had narrowed the odds considerably and gave them a fighting chance of finding Barstaple The Bastard's killer. Wasn't that a stroke of luck? Rafferty wryly asked himself.

Ross
Arnold, the boss of Allways Contract Cleaners, the firm that supplied Aimhurst's cleaning staff, was a superficially friendly man of about 35. Broad, with a too-easy smile, his apparently open manner appeared designed to disarm.

As soon as he entered Arnold's office and saw the set-up, Rafferty suspected that the task of clearing a few names off his suspects’ list wasn't going to be quite as simple as he'd hoped. Because Allways struck Rafferty as one of those fly-by-night concerns that were always one step ahead of the taxman. Its one-room office was situated above a dry-cleaners and housed a mobile phone, a scratched, secondhand desk and a card-index box. That was it. Its location, close to the railway station, was also indicative of the wide boy nature of Arnold's operation. The location would ensure a quick flit should the inland revenue start showing an interest.

His suspicions were almost immediately confirmed. After asking for background details of those of his employees who worked at Aimhursts, Arnold did his best to oblige, but it was obvious that the man's best would fall far short of requirements.

He opened his card index file with a great show of willingness, but the sparsity of information it contained made it only too plain that his workers were of the more casual sort.

“Is this all you have, Mr Arnold,” Llewellyn asked quietly. “Where are your payroll records for instance?”

Arnold, of course, had his answer off pat. “They're with my accountant. It's my year end, you see. I like to have everything nicely squared off.”

I just bet you do, thought Rafferty, who recognised a wide-boy when he saw one. “Perhaps we can have the name of this accountant,” he suggested dryly.

Rather to his surprise, Arnold supplied a name. Unsurprisingly, the name of Arnold's finance man was one of that breed of accountants at the less salubrious end of the adding and subtracting echelon. He was also one who had more addresses than the Queen. “And where might we find Mr Cohen this week?”

“I believe he's away at the moment,” Arnold told them. “Got a villa in Spain, I understand.”

With all the rest of the Costa Crooks presumably. “How convenient. Going to work on your tax return during his hols, was he?”

Arnold shrugged.

Rafferty thought he was going to have to come the hard man. But Llewellyn, that man of stern principles and even sterner morals saved him the trouble. Of course, the Welshman had the advantage of actually caring that the taxman was being defrauded.

“That's simply not good enough, Mr Arnold,” Llewellyn told him. “We're in the middle of a murder enquiry. We need information about the staff who worked at Aimhursts and we need it now.”

Arnold protested. “Most of my workers are casuals, drifters, students and the like. They come and they go.” He threw his hands in the air as if to seek their sympathy as he tried to justify himself. “What can I do? I have to employ what I can get. It means I have little information on any of them; often just a name and a contact number.” He shrugged, as much as to imply that, left to himself, he would prefer to run a more stable business.

Rafferty doubted it. It seemed likely that anyone who wanted a job without too many questions being asked would find one here with few problems, with cash in hand and no paperwork. As he'd had a few jobs like that in his youth, Rafferty was in no position to put the moral boot in. Not so Llewellyn.