Death Line (2 page)

Dally raised his head. There was a lump on his forehead the size of a hen's egg. “Some damn-fool woman. She was racing away from town here, way past the speed limit, overshot the lights and ploughed into me. She didn't stop, of course.” He gave Rafferty a grim smile. “Got her number, though.”

“Are you okay?”

Sam nodded. “Banged my head on the windscreen.”

“As long as you didn't damage anything vital.” Rafferty peered at him. “Sure you're all right? You ought to get yourself looked at. There might be concussion.”

“I popped into old Boyd's, the optician here in the High Street. Luckily he lives in the flat above his business and I got him to give me the onceover. After gazing lovingly into my eyes for a bit he pronounced me fit, so I suppose I'll live. It would happen the day I forgot to put my seatbelt on, of course. You can be sure that blasted insurance company'll make something of that if I go gaga in the next day or so.” Having finally struggled into his gear, Sam thrust his outer clothing at Smales, who was still guarding the door, with the instruction to mind it, before stomping up the stairs. “Got a new toy I see,” he said to the video-camera toting photographer as he pushed his way into Moon's office. “Nearly finished, I hope.”

“Just waiting to film the star.” Lance, the photographer, who had ambitions beyond police work, grinned as he got Sam in focus. “Scowl nicely for the camera. That's it. It's a wrap.”

With a “Hrmph', Sam's stout body bustled past the SOCO team, bent over the corpse and got to work. 'Rigor's well established,” he remarked a few minutes later. He took the temperature of the room and the rectal temperature of the corpse, frowning as he made his calculations. “He's a fine figure of a man, isn't he? Tends to slow the onset of rigor down a bit. Did you know, Rafferty,” he threw over his shoulder, “that some particularly fine-figured specimens
never
develop rigor at all?”

Rafferty frowned. “Are you trying to tell me that he's too fat for you to give me an idea of the time of death?”

Sam, whose figure was at least as "fine" as Moon's, tutted at Rafferty's want of sensitivity. “Certainly not. He probably died sometime yesterday evening, say between 7.00 p m and 11.00 p m. Of course that's a rough calculation. But I can tell you that he was definitely killed from behind by a right-handed person plying our old friend, the blunt instrument.” Sam paused and added teasingly, “Unless it was a southpaw masquerading as a right-hander. Modern killers are getting very crafty about hiding their tracks. It's all those crime programmes on the telly – gives 'em ideas.” He glanced at the crystal ball lying on the floor next to the victim's head. “And by a Holmesian process of deduction, I'd say this cute wee thing was the weapon.”

Rafferty shook his head in mock admiration. “Amazing. How do you do it?”

“Och, it's just a little skill the Almighty gives to fine-figured men in their prime, Rafferty.” Sam swept a disparaging glance over Rafferty's skinny frame and bright auburn hair, before adding, “You'll need to get some extra flesh on your bones, a higher forehead and some wise grey hairs before he invests you with similar abilities.” Having satisfactorily put both Rafferty's comparative youth and his thick auburn mop in their place, Sam bent his balding pate back to its work.

“Anything else you can tell me, oh wise one? Like whether he was hit by a man or a woman, for instance?”

“Could be either, Rafferty.” Sam spared a glance for the murder weapon as one of the SOCO team placed it in a protective bag and smiled. “Perhaps, if you ask Appleby here nicely, he'll let you have a peer into that crystal ball before he takes it away.” He got to his feet, picked up his bag and, after a few words with the scientific team, advised Rafferty, “As far as I'm concerned, you can pop him in his jiffy bag now.”

After checking with the Coroner's officer, Rafferty gave the instructions. Moon's head, hands and feet were encased in protective plastic bags and his body lifted onto polythene sheeting and secured, before he was placed in the usual fibre-glass shell.

“Any idea when you'll be doing the PM, Sam? Only-”

“Trying to queue-jump again, Rafferty?” Sam paused consideringly. “I'll maybe squeeze yon cadaver in this afternoon. About 5.00 p m. Is that quick enough for you?”

Rafferty blinked in surprise and nodded. He watched as, with Sam bellowing instructions, Moon's body was carefully manoeuvred round the bend in the stairs, and, with Sam in the rear, retrieving his clothes from the constable, the little procession disappeared through the front door.

With the removal of the body, Rafferty relaxed a little. “Right,” he said to Llewellyn. “Now that Sam has given us the benefit of his great wisdom, we can get on. Let's get back to Mr Astell.” He led the way through to Astell's office. It was a large, airy room. After the hectic busyness of Moon's office, Astell's was bare and clinical. There was nothing on the desk but a computer, which Astell presumably used to compile the natal charts. There was nothing on the walls, apart from several stark, simple but exquisite Japanese brush paintings.

Astell had evidently been thinking about what Rafferty had said earlier, because, as soon as they entered, he returned to the theme of their previous conversation. “I wouldn't want you to think that Jasper ever went beyond the bounds of prudence during the consultations, Inspector. Although it's true that he had a way of drawing people out, he was sensitive to his client's privacy and would never probe in delicate areas without being certain the client was happy for him to do so.” Rafferty gave a diplomatic nod.

“I deal solely with postal clients, making up the computerised natal charts from their birth details. Jasper taught me himself. I've learned quite a bit about hand-analysis also, but I have nothing to do with that side of things. I suffer quite badly from eczema on my hands and I find clients don't like my touching them.” Rafferty had already noticed that Astell wore thin cotton gloves. He could see some greasy ointment already beginning to seep through. “Jasper, of course, loved the more personal aspect of private consultations. He said if he was to help his clients he needed to meet them, see what made them tick. He liked people, you see.”

Rafferty pounced. He couldn't help it. Taken with his other vices, from what Astell had said, Moon sounded like a prime victim. “You're saying he was inquisitive?” he asked sharply. “In fact a bit of a nos-” Rafferty stopped abruptly as he saw Llewellyn wince. In his eagerness, he had forgotten that Superintendent Bradley's latest baby was a PR number entitled
Politeness in Interaction with Members of the Public
– PIMP for short, though luckily Bradley had yet to tumble to that aspect. Rafferty was rather pleased with the title. After all, he
had
suggested it. At least it was the most accurately named in a long line of Bradley's schemes. And like pimps the world over, Bradley got the benefits and the team – his public relations officers as he had taken to calling them, or PRO's for short got – well, they got what PRO's usually got. The jargon phrase for this little programme was, 'Politeness Costs Nothing'.

Convinced that, as long as you failed them with olde-worlde politeness, the public were ready to forgive your failure and even thank you for bothering at all, cost-cutting, "Long Pockets" Bradley had exhorted them all to mind their p's and q's and indulge in as much forelock-tugging as their hair would stand, and then some, and 'woe betide' the officer who offended against this regime.

As Rafferty, as a matter of principle, had offended against several of Bradley's previous arse-licking exercises aimed at winning for himself even more friends at Region, PIMP wasn't something he could lightly ignore. Not that he had anything against being polite to the public, far from it. It was just that the superintendent's man-management methods tended to pettiness, deviousness and, when these didn't work, outright bullying. His favourite pastime was reducing the younger WPC's to tears.

Thankfully, Edwin Astell wasn't aware of the Super's newly-tender approach to public relations, and although his nostrils pinched slightly, he didn't contradict Rafferty's description of Jasper Moon's character.

“I wouldn't have put it quite like that, Inspector, but yes, I suppose he was inquisitive. Though, a competent, experienced palmist could discover much about a person without them saying a word. I'm merely a knowledgeable amateur as far as hand analysis is concerned, but even I needed only to study a person's hands for a short time to discover if they were generous or mean, passionate or placid, creative or practical. Jasper, as a professional, was, of course, far more skilled.”

Perhaps he'd caught the look of scepticism on Rafferty's face, for Astell went on, “If I might be permitted to provide you with an example?” Rafferty nodded. “Although I've just met him and we've exchanged no more than a few words, I'd say your sergeant's a highly intelligent, analytical person, with refined tastes and a certain sensitivity. Of course,” self-deprecatingly, he added, “this is just a cursory appraisal.” He turned to Llewellyn with an apologetic smile. “You must forgive my using you as a guinea-pig, Sergeant. I hope I haven't offended you?” Not surprisingly, after such a glowing character reference, Llewellyn seemed more than happy to reassure him on the point.

Rafferty was shaken that his prejudices had been challenged and trumped with such ease. Although unwilling to second Astell's appraisal of his sergeant's virtues, he found himself admitting, “You're right. That's Llewellyn to a 'T'. How on earth did you do it?” Next he'd be telling him, a la Sherlock Holmes, that Llewellyn was contemplating marriage and the production of 2.4 children.

Astell's smile had a certain diffident charm. He was quite a good-looking man, Rafferty realised. Along with his distinctly old-fashioned manners, he had the kind of face that, for some reason, made Rafferty think of tragic First World War poets; all planes and angles and shadowed melancholic hollows.

“It's not magic, Inspector,” Astell told him. “Merely observation and rather elementary observation at that. Any student of palmistry could tell you as much. Your sergeant's hand is long, slim and full of lines, what we term a Water hand. It invariably points to sensitivity and an interest in the arts. The intellectuality is indicated by the long, straight Head Lines on both palms and the length of the topmost phalanges on his fingers. I told you, nothing can be concealed from an experienced palmist.”

Hastily, Rafferty put his hands behind his back, in case Astell was tempted to point out certain aspects of his own character. He doubted their revelation would render his expression as smug as that of his sergeant. “And Jasper Moon was an experienced palmist?” he queried

“Oh yes, of course. Don't let Jasper's esoteric taste in decor give you the wrong idea. His knowledge was wide. I only dabble, though, as I said, astrologically, Jasper has taught me a lot. Of course, my real training is on the business side, which is why Jasper originally employed me before he offered me the partnership. I still take care of the administration side of the business.”

Rafferty felt out of his depth with all this hocus-pocus, as he thought of it. Whether Moon had been murdered by one of his clients or not, it sounded to Rafferty as if Moon's profession could offer lucrative opportunities to the unscrupulous. Judging from the quantity of files that had been scattered about Moon's room, he had a lot of clients, and, as his charges were, in Rafferty's opinion, extortionate, none of his clients was likely to be poor. They would all have to be questioned and eliminated. Rafferty sighed and asked, “How soon could you let us know if anything's missing, sir?”

“As to the files – I'll have to go through the client list and match it up with the individual folders. It'll take a little while.”

Rafferty nodded. “You can do that as soon as the forensic team have finished with them. What about the rest of Mr Moon's stuff? Did you notice if anything was missing?”

Astell's narrow face was apologetic. “It was a bit difficult to tell. Jasper liked a lot of clutter about him.”

“What about money, sir?” Llewellyn put in. “Do you keep much cash on the premises?”

“Not usually, but, as a matter of fact, Jasper asked me to draw £1000 out of the bank only yesterday morning. It should still be in the cash box.”

“Where do you keep this box?” Rafferty questioned.

“In one of the drawers of Jasper's desk.”

“If you'll just wait here, sir, I'll check.” Rafferty quickly put his gloves back on and opened the door to the waiting room. There was another door on the other side connected to Moon's office. He opened this too, and after a quick word with Appleby, walked over to the desk. The cashbox, a large, black affair, squatted in the deepest of the drawers. After lifting the other two drawers from on top of it, Rafferty attempted to raise its lid with a paperknife, but it was obviously locked. He shouted through to Astell, “Have you got the key, sir?”

Astell appeared at the door and, after painstakingly removing a key from a leather pouch in his jacket pocket, he handed it to Llewellyn who passed it over. Careful to touch nothing, Rafferty inserted the key and turned it, raising the lid with the knife. The usual coin tray was on top. It must have contained about £50 in coins and with difficulty, Rafferty raised this, too, and peered underneath. Apart from a few folded sheets of stamps, the bottom of the cashbox was empty. “You said there should be a £1000 in notes?”

Astell nodded. “All in brand new £50 notes. I always insist on new notes.”

“Apart from the coins, there's nothing here now, sir,” Rafferty told him. He lifted up the cashbox. “See for yourself.”