Absolute Poison (9 page)

Rafferty glanced down at Barstaple's PR puff. It said he had left university seven years earlier after following a business studies course. He'd come out of it with Honours. “Must have been the last time Barstaple came out of anything with honours,” he commented as he tapped the relevant section.

Barstaple had provided Watts And Cutley with glowing testimonials from half a dozen previous clients and, to judge from what Alistair Plumley had said, was evidently regarded as a high-flyer, a term Rafferty viewed with distaste. In his experience, high-flyers were often people who would do anything to get ahead. The term always made him wonder about the poor sods such high-flyers used as a launch-pad.

Since finding the PR puff, Rafferty had made a few enquiries and discovered that Barstaple had set himself up two years previously as a consultant, a troubleshooter, an expert who hired himself out to firms who wished to rationalize. It was a business he ran from home. He had obviously excelled at the role as he had gone from strength to strength. Of course, the times they lived in meant Barstaple's particular expertise was in demand. Firms were being rationalized, people de-hired all over the place.

Rafferty shivered as a stout policeman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Superintendent Bradley walked over his grave. If Bradley discovered the real provenance of Llewellyn's wedding suit, being de-hired was the least he could expect. With a determined shrug, he dismissed the thought and turned back to the matter in hand.

After filling Llewellyn in on the rest of his discoveries, Rafferty returned to the Welshman's earlier comment. “Of course, it's possible Barstaple crossed swords with a neighbour.” He grinned, “Or maybe he picked a fight with the milkman over the bill.” He had been more than half-joking about the latter, but now he added, “That's a thought. Barstaple didn't live far from Aimhurst's offices. It might be an idea to find out if the same milkman delivers there as delivers in the neighbourhood of his home.”

In an attempt to divert his mind from the many problems besetting it, Rafferty joked, “What a turn-up it would be if our vengeful killer turned out to be his friendly neighbourhood milkman, clutching a pint of gold top in one hand and a poisoned carton of yoghurt in the other.”

It was pretty unlikely, Rafferty admitted to himself. Still, if they failed to find a receipt for the yoghurt's purchase, that could explain the reason why. If Barstaple's milkman was anything like Rafferty's, his bills would be masterpieces of brevity and consist of nothing more than the date and a total amount due written in bold strokes that discouraged argument.

“One point about your murdering milkman, sir.”

“What's that?”

“He might be in an ideal position to poison the yoghurt, but would he be able to swap cartons and remove the poisoned one from Barstaple's office?”

“Possibly, if our poisoning milkman had an accomplice as you assumed a murdering lover might have. Let's face it, our victim seems the kind of man who would cause the most unlikely alliances against him.”

“Anyway, it shouldn't be difficult to find out where he bought the yoghurt.,” said Llewellyn. “The receipt might still be in his flat.”

Rafferty nodded. “Better get some more officers round there. I want his place given an even more thorough going-over, not only for that receipt, but also for that rationalization report he was preparing for Alistair Plumley. His lap-top might have gone missing, but there's a fair chance he printed the report out and it's somewhere in his home. Tell Lilley.”

They had already checked the victim's coat pockets and those of the clothes he had been wearing when he died and there had been neither receipt nor report either in them or his desk. Rafferty had left Jonathon Lilley to continue the search at Barstaple's home yesterday evening, but he had so far failed to find either item. “You've got Barstaple's car keys?”

Llewellyn nodded.

“Make sure the vehicle's checked over as well.” Gallagher had told them it was the Porsche still in the reserved bay at Aimhurst's premises. “Makes you think, doesn't it?”

“What does, sir?”

“This line the church peddles about the meek inheriting the earth. Seems to me the only earth the meek inherit is the clods of the stuff that covers their coffins. It's human manure like Clive Barstaple who get the spoils.”

“Much good it did him in the end,” Llewellyn observed.

“Maybe so,” Rafferty murmured. “But I still wouldn't have minded that Porsche, especially as, if my old religious teacher's to be believed, lapsed Catholics like yours truly aren't reckoned to have much chance of booty in the hereafter either. According to her, I'm more likely to end up getting my bum pricked by the devil's pitchfork for eternity. She was another believer in that adage of yours about letting them hate as long as they feared. The old bat could have given Barstaple lessons.”

Religion was another subject Llewellyn had learned it best to avoid and he maintained a discreet silence until Rafferty returned to the matter in hand.

“One more thing we need to check out is just how tight their security was. I admit it looks pretty impressive, but security is only as good as the human factor providing it. That guard at the desk must pee occasionally, so he presumably leaves the desk unmanned. And we know there's no guard on the premises at night. Did you find out who holds keys to the place?”

Llewellyn nodded. “Alfred Smith, the usual guard from Guardian Security, has one set, as you know. He locks up as soon as the cleaners have finished. The only other people with keys were the victim himself, Gallagher the deputy manager and Alistair Plumley.”

“Right. We'll need to find out if any of those sets of keys were lost or misplaced recently. We also need to find out if there's a spare set and if so, where they're kept. Perhaps you'd get Hanks to look into that while I finish going through these files?”

Llewellyn nodded again and went out.

When
Rafferty had finished going through the staff records, he pulled some sheets of paper towards him and started to make a list.

After writing ‘Things To Do’ in his best writing at the top, he paused, waiting for further inspiration. As usual, when it came to paperwork inspiration was slow in coming and his mind began to wander.

They had yet to find the yoghurt pot containing the poison; he'd had all the rubbish searched as a matter of routine and, although there had been other empty yoghurt pots, a strawberry flavour one hadn't been amongst them.. He frowned as he tried to figure out if there might not be another reason other than the one Sam had suggested for the killer to substitute the poisoned pot for a normal one but he couldn't come up with anything. Probably, it was as Dally had suggested, and that, if it meant anything at all, it was that the killer was merely trying to ensure that the yoghurt was found innocent.

Rafferty gave himself a mental shake, grasped his pen firmly and wrote:

1. Find out who was in the victim's office after, say, one o'clock in the afternoon, by which time, at the earliest, Barstaple would presumably have consumed the yoghurt and discarded the pot in his bin.

2. Of particular relevance to the above, find out if anyone was in Barstaple's office alone at any time that afternoon and had the opportunity to retrieve the poisoned yoghurt pot and substitute it—presumably, Barstaple, too, made occasional visits to the lavatory, so was likely to have left his office empty at least once that afternoon.

3. Find out which members of staff were the last to leave on Wednesday evening as the same opportunity as in 2 would have been available to them.

4. Check if any more informal visitors came to the offices that day.

Having made a start, Rafferty sat back. That carton of yoghurt was, he felt, the key to the case. If they could pinpoint who had the opportunity to remove it he was pretty certain they'd find the killer, too. Or at the very least an accomplice.

Pleased with his efforts, Rafferty began on another list; this one of those who were known to have been alone in the victim's office at the relevant times.

At the top he wrote the name of Ada Collins, the contract cleaning supervisor. Beside her name, he put the work ‘unlikely’. She didn't work for Watts And Cutley, so unless she had been one of those rationalized by him in an earlier episode, she had been safe from Barstaple’ particular brand of nastiness. Furthermore, she had claimed never to have met the man. Rafferty still considered that unlikely. In his consultancy capacity, Barstaple had been the acting manager and earned a tidy sum if the brand new Porsche was anything to go by. He'd hardly pack up dead on 5.30 every single evening and, according to both Gallagher and Eric Penn, he hadn't done so.

He made another note against Ada Collins’ name, a reminder to check her background, then paused again. Before he sat back, he added the same against the names of the other contract cleaning staff.

He gazed happily at his neat lists for a few moments, before he remembered they were only a start. And as he thought of all the other checking that lay ahead he slumped in his chair. Maybe it wasn't too late even now to follow his uncles, cousins, and brothers into the building trade? Of course, Superintendent Bradley might yet make the decision for him and give him a shove in the direction of such an alternative career—as a trustie in a prison carpentry shop. But Rafferty immediately put that thought aside. Dafyd Llewellyn was a cautious soul, so it was hardly an imminent danger. The wedding suit would hang in the closet for a year or two yet, gathering moths and dust and—with a bit of luck—the label ‘unfashionable’ to boot. It was a comforting thought and cheered Rafferty immeasurably.

“By the
way,” Llewellyn said as they got in the car much later that morning and headed for Aimhurst And Son's offices to interview the staff. “We were too busy earlier for me to mention it, but Maureen and I have set a date and venue for our wedding.”

Rafferty's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He had congratulated himself too soon. The fates had obviously decided to make an example of him. Llewellyn's news meant the iffy suit had a definite date set for its airing. It explained why Llewellyn had been throwing out so many high-minded quotes. Rafferty had noticed their number went up or down according to whether Llewellyn was happy or miserable.

Still, not to panic, he told himself. Knowing Llewellyn's no-rush mentality, the date was probably months away. He managed to choke out his congratulations.

Llewellyn gave him one of the tiny smiles that were the equivalent of a huge grin from anyone else and confided, “It was what you said that prompted us.”

Me and my big mouth, thought Rafferty. He prayed he'd get laryngitis next time he felt tempted to give advice against his own best interests. Conscious that his ready tongue had got him into enough trouble already, he managed to avoid giving voice to another of the opinions that were always ready to trip off its tip. Admittedly, it
was
pretty unromantic to arrange your wedding date right at the start of a murder enquiry, but he was damned if he was going to be the one to say so. He thought he'd said more than enough on the subject of marriage already.

“Yes,” Llewellyn added. “We've been thinking seriously about it and finally made up our minds. We've compromised on a register office ceremony and will ask our respective churches for blessings afterwards. Maureen had a day off today and went to Elmhurst Register Office to make the arrangements. She rang me just before we left the office to let me know that the date at least is organised.”

Rafferty tried to look pleased at the news. After all, he had been the one to get the romance off the ground. He immediately crunched the gears. To cover his gaffe, he attempted a joke. “So, when is it? Christmas five years hence?” Llewellyn had a well- deserved reputation for caution. Rafferty had relied on it, dammit. “Remind me to put a note in my five-year diary.”

“It's a little earlier than that, actually. It's March. March 29th this year.” Llewellyn paused. “You know, I haven't been in a Marks And Spencer store for some years. I know they have a reputation for quality, but I didn't realize before that it extended to superior suits at reasonable prices. You should ask your mother to look out for a new one there for you.” Rafferty sensed the pained glance Llewellyn directed at his old brown suit. “You'll want to look smart for the wedding, especially as Superintendent Bradley's been invited.”

A chilly breeze seemed to flutter around Rafferty's heart at Llewellyn's latest revelation. The fates were really going for the jugular this time. The news about Bradley was all he needed. “Long-Pockets’ Bradley could price anything at a hundred yards, and if Llewellyn wore his iffy suit Bradley would be bound to ask where he'd got it. No way would he be taken in by the fake Marks And Sparks tag. “Who decided to invite him?”

“Maureen's mother. When Maureen rang her to tell her the news she was so pleased her mother didn't quibble about it being a civil ceremony that she agreed to let her make a start on the invitation list.” Llewellyn directed another of his little smiles at Rafferty. “I gather Superintendent Bradley was the first name she thought of. She's already dropped his invitation round. She knows him from the Masons’ dinner dances. Apparently, Maureen's father's a member.”

I might have known it, Rafferty thought. Maureen's mother, Claire Tyler-Jenkins as was, snob and social-climber second to none, would consider it as natural as breathing that, with ambitions to the future, she should invite her prospective son-in-law's big white chief to the wedding. Why didn't that possibility occur to me? he asked himself with dismay. He hadn't exactly endeared himself to the old man and for months Bradley had been looking for a reason to get rid of him. He was unlikely to worry if the means to that end put paid to Llewellyn's career as well as his own.