Death Line (32 page)

“Well – everyone who had reason to come to the house, I suppose. It's such a beautiful dress, I couldn't wait for Thursday evening and the opportunity to show it off. I showed it to Mrs Hadleigh, of course, and that charming Mrs Moreno. It was a bit naughty of me, I know, but I wanted her to make that wretched Campbell woman jealous and I knew Mrs Moreno would be sure to tell her how expensive it was. I know she could never have afforded such a gown.”

Rafferty was surprised that Sarah Astell thought she could, given her own admitted money problems. But then, some women always managed to find money for new clothes. His own late wife had been the same. “Did you leave anyone alone with the dress?” he asked. “Alone for long enough to remove some threads?”

Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. Naturally, I made Mrs Moreno coffee. And Mrs Hadleigh is in and out of the bedrooms all the time. If she'd wanted to tamper with the dress, she could have. But...” Her voice faltered, and she went on uncertainly, “You said Mrs Hadleigh was no longer a suspect, and as she's the only person who had reason to kill Moon...”

With her exoneration of Ellen Hadleigh, she seemed to come to a realisation of her own position and her brief spark of animation died. She gazed pitifully at him, a mute plea in her eyes, before she managed to find her voice again. “If – when you find I'm telling the truth, will I be allowed to go home?” She clutched her handkerchief to her bosom as if the scrap of lawn and lace was the only thing keeping her from going to pieces. Her voice rose in agitation as she realised she might never go home again. “Only, it's time for my medication, you see. I don't like to miss it.”

Rafferty cursed himself for a fool. He should have made certain he had her pills. Her brief would be sure to make something of that when it came to court. If – when Clara Davies failed to confirm her story, he'd have to send someone back to the house with Astell for them. He was about to offer her the panacea of tea, but realised she was long past the stage of being able to rely on that as a crutch. She had borne up surprisingly well, so far. But as he looked at her, it was obvious that her fragile calmness wouldn't hold out much longer. Her brittle fair hair had escaped its previously neat bun and stood up wildly, and under the red blotches, her face was stark white, her eyes quite glassy. In a little while, she would start to come apart at the mental seams.

Even though he had little faith in her claims being backed up, compassion compelled him to reassure her. “If Ms Davies confirms what you say, I'll be able to let you go home very soon. Just give me time to make a phone call.”

He left her with the WPC. Followed by Llewellyn, he hurried along to his office. Picking up the phone, he paused and asked the Welshman, “Have you got the telephone number of Clara Davies handy?” Llewellyn nodded. “Let's have it, then. Perhaps once she denies Sarah Astell's tale, Sarah will be prepared to face facts. Then we can get on.” Quickly, he punched out the number.

Slowly,
Rafferty replaced the receiver. He could barely believe it, but Clara Davies had confirmed Sarah Astell's story. And when he had questioned her memory and powers of observation, she had briskly reminded him that she had worked as a designer all her adult life; of course she noticed whether someone was wearing black, silver-threaded cashmere or navy-and white wool.

Dispirited, Rafferty, knew he had no more cards to play. They'd worked their way through the entire suspect pack, queens, knaves, even the odd joker. Before today, he'd believed – as the man said – that once they'd done that, whoever was left, however improbable, must be the murderer.

The trouble was they had nobody left. They had eliminated every single suspect. Not only had the middle-aged woman on the bus whom Llewellyn had thought to be Sarah Astell, turned out to be one of her neighbours, the furtiveness explained by the reluctant information that she had sneaked out to meet her lover, but reliable witnesses had come forward to swear that neither Ginnie Campbell nor Christian Farley had been anywhere near Moon's office at the time of his death. They had actually been seen at the houses of the respective friends where they had claimed to be at around the time Moon had died.

Even Jocelyn Eckersley had finally produced an unimpeachable alibi. He had been at a London literary awards dinner, picking up a special, lifetime's achievement award for Nat Kingston. Desperation made Rafferty wonder if Kingston had killed Moon and had taken his secret, and the solution to Rafferty's investigation, to the grave.

Rafferty wondered where the hell he went from here? The thought that Superintendent Bradley would doubtless have some suggestions to make made his stomach curdle. Unfortunately, as he was seeing him in the morning, there was no way he was going to be able to avoid hearing them. Perhaps, he should ask Mercedes Moreno to prescribe another stone? One that would render their ego-on-legs Superintendent full of sweet reason instead of the accusing diatribe that Rafferty was expecting. Trouble was, he doubted it would be any more effective than the other stone she had given him. The one that was supposed to help him solve the murder.

After he had seen Sarah Astell off home, Rafferty went to find Llewellyn. “I don't know about you,” he complained to the still alert looking Llewellyn. “But I've about had a bellyful today. I'm off home.”

Llewellyn nodded. “I nearly forgot. Happy birthday, Joseph.”

Rafferty had forgotten it was his birthday. And given the way the day had turned out, wasn't in the mood to be reminded. Grim-faced, he demanded, “Are you trying to be funny?” before he made for the door, slamming it behind him.

Rafferty
opened the door of his flat, kicking aside a belatedly delivered, second post birthday card as he did so. As near total despair as he could ever remember being, he scowled at the mantelpiece and its bright display of family cards that he had opened that morning. Another year older and no smarter, he thought. Age was supposed to bring wisdom; his must have been taken away when they'd whipped out his impacted molars. He'd had the case wrapped up and now... Now he was back to square one. Worse, because at least when he'd been at square one the first time round, he'd had hope and enthusiasm. Now, he had neither.

Disgruntled, he took himself and a bottle of Jameson's off to bed. But his dreams were filled with images of fortune-tellers, crystal-ball gazers and tarot-card readers, all predicting a dire future for him. Unsurprisingly, they all wore Superintendent Bradley's face.

Thankfully the sadistic seers eventually tired of tormenting him and he fell into a heavy sleep, only to wake, shouting, “But it should have been two!” as the radio alarm went off. He climbed reluctantly out of bed to greet both the new day and a splitting headache. After swallowing a couple of painkillers, he headed for the shower.

The post fell to the mat as he came out of the bathroom. He carried it through to the kitchen and opened it while he waited for the kettle to boil. Gas bill. Phone bill. The belated birthday card from some night club touting for members that he had kicked aside the night before. He threw it in the bin, took his tea through to the bedroom and got dressed.

He was halfway to his car when he stopped. My God, he thought. What if Moon had got it wrong? He sprinted the last few yards to his car, headache forgotten as he realised the implications. He broke all the speed limits on the way to the station and burst into his office like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Quick,” he said to a startled Llewellyn. “Where's Moon's diary? Don't stand there staring at me, man,” he shouted as Llewellyn made no move to answer him. “And don't tell me it hasn't come back from the accountants. I want it now. This could be important.”

Llewellyn went out without a word. He returned in five minutes, the diary under his arm. Rafferty snatched it from him and thumbed through to the appropriate page. When he raised his head, his eyes were shining. “Gotcher.”

And now, he also realised just what it was that had niggled him the previous day. Because his dream had been right. Unless Sarah Astell had inexplicably thrown one away, it should have been two.

Rafferty turned
to Llewellyn as he lifted the telephone receiver. “I think I now know the identity of the murderer.” He began to dial. “A phone call should confirm it.” He spoke to one of the officers who had conducted the search of the Astells' house. What he said confirmed what Rafferty's dream had already told him.

“Know what?” he asked Llewellyn as he stood up. “We've been looking at this murder all wrong. I reckon that's exactly what we were intended to do. I don't think this was ever an impetuous, spur of the moment, crime at all.” He made for the door, struggling into his jacket as he went. “Come on, Dafyd. There's no time to lose. We should never have let Mrs Astell go. I hope to God we're in time to prevent another murder.”

It seemed he had arrived at his conclusions none too soon, because he heard Superintendent Bradley bellowing his name from the top of the stairs just before the rear door of the station slammed behind them, and he quickened his pace.

Llewellyn hesitated and gazed back at the door, before asking, in a voice usually reserved for the recently-bereaved, whether Rafferty thought someone had finally enlightened the Superintendent as to his amusing talents with an acronym.

“Sounds like it,” Rafferty grunted. Then he grinned. “But I'd like to see him haul me across the coals once I've dumped the solution to this murder in his lap. Even Bradley wouldn't have the gall for that. Come on.” He grabbed Llewellyn's arm and propelled him towards the car-park before Bradley could catch up with them, giving Llewellyn a rather breathless explanation as they ran for the car. With a squeal of brakes, he drove out of the yard and headed south. He just hoped they were in time.

Ellen
Hadleigh opened the Astells' door. Rafferty pushed past her, ignoring her startled cry. “Quickly. Where's Mrs Astell?”

“She's upstairs having a lie down. Mr Astell won't want you disturbing her,” she shouted after them as they ran for the stairs.

As there was no answer when Rafferty knocked politely on Sarah Astell's bedroom door, he hesitated, then pushed it open. She was on the bed and she was in a bad way, the pulse feeble. Rafferty, convinced that if they waited for an ambulance they'd have another corpse on their hands, heaved her across his shoulder. Grunting with the effort, he staggered back down the stairs. “Pick up the tablets and the note,” he shouted back to Llewellyn, as an open-mouthed Ellen Hadleigh stared at them. “And a few Hail Mary's wouldn't go amiss.”

Edwin
Astell still hadn't returned home by the time they left the hospital. They found him working quietly in his office in the High Street. Rafferty didn't pause to knock on his door, but thrust it open. “I want a word, Mr Astell. In fact, I want several words. May we come in? You might be interested to learn that we've just come from the hospital.”

Astell frowned. “Hospital? What are you talking about? What's happened?”

“I think you know. You might also be interested to learn that your wife is alive. She seems to make a habit of stumping the doctors, as, after this latest overdose they didn't give a great deal for her chances. Neither did I, I'll admit. But she's making a surprisingly rapid recovery. She was sitting up in bed, chatting nineteen to the dozen to one of my WPC's when I left her.”

Astell stared at him, a suitably stunned expression on his face. “My wife in hospital? But why did no-one inform me?” Grey-faced, he pushed back his chair. “I must go to her.”

“Please sit down, Mr Astell. I doubt your wife will want to see you. Besides, I have a number of questions I'd like to put to you. I'll get straight to the point,” Rafferty continued as, surprisingly, Astell sat down again. “The point being your murder of Jasper Moon and the attempted faked suicide of your unfortunate wife.”

Astell stood up once more. “What nonsense is this? Whatever it is, I haven't got time to listen to it. I must get to the hospital. It sounds as if my poor wife has tried to kill herself again. This is your doing,” he accused Rafferty roughly. “You can be sure I'll make it my business to make you pay for what you've put her through.”

“I wouldn't bother adopting the concerned and devoted husband role. It won't wash. Not any more, though I admit you had us all fooled for a while. It was something your little girl said that gave you away. What was it now?” Rafferty wrinkled his brow. “Oh yes. She told us that she had reassured her mother that people did like her. Victoria told her mother that she liked her, that Mrs Moreno liked her. Odd that she didn't mention you, sir. Your daughter's an intelligent child. I would have thought she would realise that your liking would be the greatest reassurance her mother could hear. But your name never came up. Isn't that strange? There again, I suppose it's not so strange. She knows the real situation between you and her mother, doesn't she? Devoted husband for the outside world and something less than devoted en famille. Sit down Mr Astell. I haven't finished.”

“You may not have finished,” Astell assured them. “But I have. I've listened to as much of this taradiddle as I care to. Would you please leave?”

“Surely you want to know why your clever scheme didn't come off? When you so nearly got away with it, too. Your wife's only alive now because I finally rumbled you, you see. Humour me, please, Mr Astell.” His glance rested fleetingly on Llewellyn. “It's not often I get the chance to show off just how clever I've been.”