Death Line (27 page)

“So you never really intended making the court case public?”

“How could I, without hurting Mrs Hadleigh and her son further? I took care not to let Jasper Moon know that, though. Edwin was unwell that day and in bed. When I told him what had happened, he tried to dissuade me from ringing Moon.” Understandably, she gave her husband a propitiating glance. “He didn't say so, but I realise now that he was worried Moon might take it out on him in some way, even break up the partnership, but at the time I didn't think of that aspect. I felt too strongly about it.”

“I wasn't really worried that Jasper would end our partnership,” her husband broke in. “I was more concerned for you. You know how any upset affects you.”

She gave him another tremulous, apologetic smile. “I wish now I'd listened to you. But at the time, I felt it was something I had to do. And your poor head was aching too much for you to have the strength to dissuade me.”

She glanced at Llewellyn's expressionless countenance, as though she detected disapproval. It was a feeling with which Rafferty was familiar. Even with his features blank and his tongue silent, Llewellyn's thoughts somehow communicated themselves. They frequently caused an unwise retaliatory outburst from Rafferty. It seemed they had the same effect on Sarah Astell, for now she gave a defensive laugh, and told them, “Of course, I calmed down later and felt cross that I'd let Moon distress me so much.” Her lower lip trembled. For a moment, she seemed to hover between rage and tears, and a frown creased her brow as if she was confused by her own strongly contradictory emotions.

“I'm surprised that after such a conversation, Jasper Moon should still send you a birthday present,” Llewellyn remarked. “He did still send it, I understand?”

Sarah Astell blinked. “Yes. He gave it to Edwin before he left the office on Thursday evening. I put it straight in the bin. I didn't want his presents. Especially-” She broke off. “Edwin found it and made me take it back.” She glanced across at her husband. “I felt I owed it to him to do that much.”

“I gather he'd sent you a video?” Llewellyn went on. “I-”

She stared at him, eyes wide. “How do you know what he sent me?”

“He'd left the wrapped parcel on his desk earlier in the week, Mrs Astell,” he explained. “Not difficult to guess what it was.”

“I see.”

“I hope it was to your taste?”

“I've no idea, Sergeant. I didn't watch it.”

“I see.” Llewellyn, who seemed to have the bit between his teeth, paused before he changed tack. “During your conversation, I understand he mentioned something about you finding out more than you bargained for if you dug into the past. Have you any idea what he meant?”

“None. I took it for granted he was merely trying to intimidate me with non-existent will o' the wisps. But as I had no intention of causing Mrs Hadleigh further upset, I didn't think any more about it.”

Llewellyn seemed to find her answer a bit hard to swallow, but as he appeared to have run out of steam for the present, Rafferty called a halt and made for the door. “We may need to speak to you again,” he warned and caught the anxious glance the Astells exchanged. “Come along, Llewellyn.”

“But-” Llewellyn strangled his protest for the time being, but when they reached the drive, he complained, “You were very easy on them, weren't you? Doesn't it strike you as odd that Moon should still send her a birthday present after that telephone call? Surely-”

“Of course it's bloody odd,” Rafferty retorted. “But I can't see that badgering Sarah Astell about it is likely to explain the oddity. It's clear she didn't want Moon's gift. But being on the receiving end of unwanted presents is hardly a hanging offence, and as he's not about for me to ask why he sent it, there's not a lot I can do to find out. It's not as if she's even got any sort of motive that we've been able to discover; being repelled by homosexuals is scarcely reason enough for murder, or half the population would be at it.”

“But even so-” Llewellyn began.

Rafferty interrupted him to demand. “What did you expect me to do? Sit there for the rest of the day till she'd explained Moon's thick skin to your satisfaction?” He got in the car and turned on the engine. “I tell you what I am going to do,” he said. “I'm going to get a bite to eat. I'm starving.”

The Astells' house was situated on the southern outskirts of Elmhurst. Rafferty had already noted that it was only a five minute run in the car to one of his favourite riverside pubs, The Black Swan, and now, with a frown, he nosed the car towards it. “I hope they've got fish on the menu. So far, this case seems to have twisted and turned like an eel with the runs. If we're to get a firm hold on it, I reckon we're going to need all the brain food we can get.”

The
sweeping branches of the weeping willow trees in the pub garden were only now losing their delicate, lance-shaped leaves. They still provided a pleasant shade from the suddenly fierce October sun. At one time, Autumn had been his favourite of all the seasons, Rafferty mused, as he sipped his bitter. The season of mellow fruitfulness, as some dead poet had it; the time of bright Indian summer skies when, as today, the sun, as if guided by some Old Master's hand, burnished the rusts, russets and ambers of the shedding leaves to glowing life. But, he had long ago realised that this appearance of vivid life was counterfeit. Like the photo of the young and long-dead Carstairs and his laughing friend, it served more as a reminder of one's own mortality. Because, once the fruit was harvested, the glow faded and even the most beautiful Autumn was merely the precursor to the death and decay of winter.

Rafferty was a realist, and as his childhood belief in an afterlife, of heaven and hell and soaring angels had diminished to a vague hope of
something
to follow, he had transferred his allegiance to Spring. To a policeman who had to deal with yet another sudden and violent passing, Spring, with its vigorous renewal, was an infinitely more comforting season.

Still, it was a glorious day, he acknowledged as he leant back against the bench; he was getting used to snatching relaxation when he could get it. The recent prolonged rain had filled the sluggish River Tiffey after the long drought-ridden summer and it sparkled with the lustre of a thousand love-bright solitaires in the sunshine. Running fast and sweet, it had shaken off any lingering summer odours.

Llewellyn was just coming towards him across the grass with his second half of Elgood's and he sighed contentedly, silently congratulating Maureen for convincing Llewellyn of the superiority of pub lunches. He felt pleasantly full, having just got outside a particularly generous plateful of ploughman's – fish was off the menu today, unfortunately; he could still taste the crusty bread, the great wedge of mature cheddar served with a pickle with the bite of a Doberman. Apart from finding the solution to the case, he asked himself, what more could any man want?

“We ought to make this the last, sir,” Llewellyn suggested, bringing, along with Rafferty's beer, the unwelcome reminder that in spite of an abundance of suspects, he had yet to solve the case.

Rafferty wished, not for the first time, that his sergeant was less the dutiful Methodist, less into keeping both their noses firmly fixed to the grindstone and more into indulging in the occasional bout of hookey. It remained to be seen whether his introduction to Catholicism and possible entry into the Rafferty family would loosen him up a bit. If it ever came off, that was. Llewellyn's cautious streak seemed to come from the bone. If she wanted to marry his sergeant, Rafferty realised Maureen might have to do the proposing herself, and then kidnap her bridegroom as they used to do with well-dowered brides years ago.

Llewellyn murmured, “I don't mean to rush you, sir,” as he watched Rafferty resignedly pick up his glass. “Only I've just realised something that could have an important bearing on the case.”

“Oh yes? What's that then? The name of the murderer?” he suggested sardonically before draining his glass.

“Maybe.”

Llewellyn's answer nearly made him choke on his bitter. Slowly, he lowered his glass and stared at the Welshman.

“I've just realised the identity of one of the boys in that old film that Moon had hidden in his wardrobe,” he explained. “If I'm right, I believe it gives one of our suspects a very good reason for wanting Moon dead.”

Llewellyn was
right. It was Carstairs in the old film of the homosexual lovers that they'd found hidden in Moon's wardrobe. Rafferty rewound the film and began to watch it through again. “Now I know why, every time I saw that veritable gallery of photographs Sarah Astell has of him, I had a feeling of familiarity. Of course, the film's very poor quality, and he's much younger.” Rafferty excused his own lack of observation. “So much for his lady-killer reputation – that and his marriage must have made a pretty effective smokescreen for his real preferences.” He froze the film and nodded at the screen. “And now I recognise the other young man, too. It's Nat Kingston. Mrs Astell told us he and her father had been close friends.”

“Whether or not the other youth is Kingston is hardly significant,” said Llewellyn briskly, as if reluctant to accept that his hero had other human weakness, apart from the reluctance to visit a doctor that he had already admitted to. “But what is significant is my conviction that, after her cold-shoulder treatment, her abusive and threatening telephone call must have been the last straw for Moon. And he retaliated by issuing a threat of his own – to make this film public and turn her homosexual prejudices back on herself. He must have contemplated doing something of the sort even before she made that telephone call, otherwise why have four video copies made? Her phone call just provided that extra spur to a decision already more than half made.” Llewellyn paused for a moment, and then added, “And if, as I suspect, Carstairs had been the great love of Moon's life that young man in The Troubadour mentioned, it would explain his possession of this film. Carstairs was good-looking, sophisticated, experienced, travelled – and, as we now discover – homosexual. Moon would have been dazzled if Carstairs paid him attention. Moon was a good-looking young man himself, on the spot, living in Carstairs' house.” Llewellyn's sallow skin positively glowed as, with an unaccustomed vigour, he laid out his arguments.

“If I'm right, it must have been Moon's first serious love affair; we can discount his half-hearted male-female romances. They were simply attempts at convincing himself he was other than homosexual. And then he discovered Carstairs had another lover; a relationship that had endured for years. Can't you just imagine how devastated Moon would feel, the acrimosity of the split when Moon found out that he had been little more than a plaything to Carstairs?”

Rafferty tried to break in, but Llewellyn hurried on. 'Don't you see, it would explain why Moon had this film. Carstairs seems the type who would have taunted him with it, thrown his love and the film in his face when Moon challenged him. Probably Moon took the film to torment himself, to remind him, should he ever forget, that great love often brought great pain and to keep clear of it in future. Moon was very young, sensitive about his own homosexuality, probably fearful about it becoming common knowledge. He must have felt a terrible sense of betrayal when he discovered that Carstairs had been cheating on him. And being so young, he was probably even more prone to melodrama then than he was when he reached middle aged. It would explain everything, including why he left Carstairs' employ.’

Rafferty had listened to Llewellyn's impassioned theorising with growing astonishment. When he finally got a chance to get a word in, all he could find to say was, “My God, you're a bit of a drama queen yourself, aren't you? I never suspected.”

Llewellyn flushed. “If you read the classics rather than those trashy novels, you'd have more understanding of deep love and its passions. It can change history, create war, death, destruction. You must have heard of Helen of Troy, Tristram and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet. Surely, even you can see that the homosexual world also have its great love stories?”

It was Rafferty's turn to flush. He supposed he should be grateful that Llewellyn had stopped short of accusing him of being wilfully blinded by his own prejudices.

“Could be one reason why Moon finally settled on Christian Farley rather than one of the gilded youth he could have chosen. You said yourself Moon's choice surprised you.”

Rafferty frowned. He suspected he knew in which direction Llewellyn's mind was going. And, in spite of the Welshman's eloquence, he still thought Ellen Hadleigh the more likely suspect. But, this time he didn't attempt to interrupt.

“We know Sarah Astell disliked Moon even before she learned of his assault on Terry Hadleigh. Obviously, she never suspected when she threatened Moon that he had this film of her adored father, or she wouldn't have dared anger him. You must admit, Moon's possession of this film gives Sarah Astell a strong circumstantial motive for murder. It's not as if it's the only copy. We know he had more made. We also know he sent her a video on the evening of his death.”

Rafferty conceded the point. “But I still can't see her killing him. It would be more believable if she persuaded Astell to kill him for her. But that scenario also strikes me as unlikely. I can't see Astell committing this particular murder. It simply doesn't fit his character.”

“But it fits hers,” Llewellyn insisted. “You said yourself that it was a spur-of-the moment murder. She's just the type of highly emotional woman to act in such a way. No rational male – and Astell's certainly that – would be prepared to risk his livelihood over an ancient scandal that would be no more than a five-minute wonder. Most of Sarah Astell's money has gone to pay for her commitments at Lloyds. Even if his wife refused to face it, Astell would know that their future financial security rested with Moon. They needed his friendship. Once tempers had cooled Astell would have been likely to persuade his wife to eat humble pie and apologise to Moon – any other course of action would have been foolish.” Llewellyn paused, before he added softly. “Of course, the difficulty would be getting Sarah Astell to agree. She's capable of ignoring the financial angle to protect her father's reputation. She had the motive. She also had the opportunity, as she was almost certainly alone for some time that evening. Even if Astell and Mrs Moreno came in and discovered her missing, they would assume she was in the bathroom. But even if Astell did check on her, as he claimed, and found her gone from the sitting room, how likely is it he would have betrayed her? He agreed with her alibi readily enough. He's been trying to protect her, can't you see that?” Llewellyn took a breath and went on.