Death Line (6 page)

“My father now, he preferred to patronise the turf accountant. But he was generally sorry after. Great one for confessing, he was. A regular Mr Micawber.” He paused to see if this literary allusion had been noted, before he went on. “Yes, a regular Mr Micawber. Only with him it wasn't the money he liked to balance out, it was the sins. Like the sensible Dubliner he was, he made sure he got the current week's sins cleared away at confession before he got started on the next lot. That way he could be certain he'd only have one week's sins to account for when he met his Maker. Balancing the heavenly books, he called it.”

“Sounds eminently practical, if a little blasphemous. I wonder in what light The Almighty would regard it?”

Rafferty shrugged. “I don't reckon my old man ever considered that. For all the priest's efforts, I think he regarded God as some kind of superior bookie who would be too pleased to notch another short-odds soul up on the winners' board to quibble. He'd have died happy; he was well up on the odds at the time he fell off that scaffolding, as he'd only been to confession three days b-.” He broke off abruptly. “Hell's bells. I've just remembered – I promised to take my ma to see a bloody clairvoyant next week. I wouldn't have agreed only she caught me at a weak moment. Isn't that just like a woman?”

“Weak moment?” Llewellyn echoed.

“All right, I was drunk. A pre-birthday celebration. Ma wants to get in contact with the old man. Gives me the creeps. I could do without the star man's murder at the same time.”

“Why does she want to contact him now?” Llewellyn asked. “Surely, your father died many years ago?”

“He did. But one of his cronies was working abroad and has only just returned. Ma bumped into him last week. He told her that, for once, the old man had had a big win on the gee-gees. A month or two before he died, I gather. Apparently it coincided with one of his periods of remorse. Anyway, to cut a long story short, this crony reckons the old man invested his winnings in some kind of insurance policy. Ma's been through the house like a dose of salts, turned the place upside down, searched through a lifetime's accumulation of papers, but she hasn't been able to find this policy. I told her that he either cashed it in five minutes after taking it out, or that it got left behind when we moved down here, but she won't have it. That's why she's going to this clairvoyant. She wants to ask dad what he's done with it.” Rafferty grinned. “I wouldn't mind, but he never told her anything voluntarily when he was alive. I can't see him starting now.”

He was about to open the car door when he noticed an elderly woman arguing with Smales outside the front door of Constellation Consultants. As Rafferty approached, he heard him tell the woman firmly, “I'm sorry, madam, but you can't go in. There's been a death on the premises and...”

The woman swayed slightly, clutched the constable's arm, and, in a shaky voice, asked, “Do you know when? How?”

Rafferty interrupted her questioning. The woman hadn't asked who had been killed, he noticed. It certainly hadn't taken long for the news of Moon's murder to travel round the town. He was surprised they weren't already fighting off Fleet Street's hordes.

“This lady wants to get into Mr Moon's offices, sir,” Smales explained. “I told her-”

Rafferty stopped him. “It's all right, Smales, I'll deal with it.” He turned to the woman. “The constable's right, madam. You can't go in there.” He couldn't help but wonder why she should want to. She hardly seemed the type to be interested in oils and incenses, never mind the other services they offered. For one thing, she didn't look as if she'd be able to afford them. She was cheaply dressed in a coat of man-made tweed-look fabric, and, to judge by her swollen feet and ankles, she would prefer Radox bath salts any day. Surely she wasn't one of the consultancy's regulars?

After Rafferty had introduced himself and Llewellyn, he suggested they sit on one of the wooden benches that lined the semi-pedestrianized High Street. “Did you know Jasper Moon well?” he asked her once they were seated. “Only I noticed the news of his death seemed to upset you.”

“No. I couldn't say I knew Mr Moon well. Hardly at all, in fact. I always finish work before he comes in. I do the cleaning,” she explained, as she saw Rafferty's puzzlement.

“You're Mrs Hadleigh,” he exclaimed. “It's lucky I bumped into you as I wanted a word.”

She clutched her shabby shopping bag to her bosom and asked defensively, “Why? Why should you want to talk to me?”

Rafferty was gentle with her. The news of Moon's death had obviously shocked her. “It wasn't a natural death, Mrs Hadleigh. It's usual to talk to anyone who knew the murder victim. There's really nothing for you to worry about. We can leave it till later today if you'd rather.”

This seemed to reassure her. She relaxed her grip on the bag and shook her head. “No, no that's all right.” Hesitantly, she asked, “Have you any idea who killed him?”

“It's early days yet,” he told her. “But we're hopeful.” She gazed back at him, nodding, as if reassured by his confident words. He wished he was hopeful. He should at least have armed himself with a good luck agate amulet before coming out with such a rash statement.

“When will I be able to get in to clean?”

“It'll be a few days yet. But I understood from Mr Astell that you cleaned there last night. You weren't expected in this morning.”

“It's all right for Mr Astell to tell me not to come in. He's got a rich wife. I can't afford to lose two hours pay just because I had to go to the hospital yesterday.”

Rafferty nodded as though he found her explanation eminently reasonable. Yet he couldn't help wondering how she had expected to do her cleaning when, but for Moon's murder, the shop would now be open and clients arriving? Perhaps she had expected to be able to hoover round them? “I believe you've only worked for the consultancy for a few weeks?”

She nodded. “That's right. As I said, yesterday, I worked here from 5.00 p m to 7.00 p m. Then I went onto Mr and Mrs Astell's house to help clear up after their little do. He gave me a glass of sherry in honour of the occasion, though he probably wished he hadn't after.” She glanced at Rafferty in some embarrassment. “I don't normally drink, you see, and I came over all dizzy. Of course, they keep the place terribly over-heated and I'd been on my feet all day. Anyway, Mr Astell ordered me a taxi and persuaded me to go home. And after he paid for the taxi, I could hardly expect him to pay me for the evening as well. That's why I thought I'd come and clean this morning, only, what with the hospital appointment and then working so late on top of my other jobs, it was a long, tiring day.”

She had yet to get over it, Rafferty thought, as her face seemed drawn, and her eyes had deep smudges under them. What a way to have to eke out a pension.

“Of course, this morning I overslept. That's why I'm so behind today,” she told him. “I just rushed straight round here, and never gave a thought to the shop being open, or else I'd have left them till last.”

Rafferty nodded, glad to have one puzzle solved. Anxious not to alarm her, but conscious of the fact that she could have been the last person to see Moon alive, he asked casually, “I gather Mr Moon was still working when you left the offices?” She nodded. “Was he alone, do you know?”

She didn't answer immediately. Rafferty was about to repeat the question when she said, “Sorry. It's been such a shock. Mr Moon was in his office when I left. But he wasn't alone.” She paused and added quietly, “He had a client with him.”

Rafferty's sharp demand of, “A client? Are you sure?” made her jump. Quickly, he apologised. But it was their first lead and to get it so early in the case was more than he had hoped for. She confirmed it. Trying to control the excitement in his voice, Rafferty asked, “Do you know this client's name, Mrs Hadleigh?”

She hesitated, bit her lip and gazed across the road as if seeking inspiration. Rafferty's hopes began to subside. But then, she told him firmly, “Mr Moon called him Mr Henderson.”

“Did you see him at all, Mrs Hadleigh?” Llewellyn questioned. She nodded and Rafferty began to get excited again. “A description would be useful,” the Welshman prompted.

A faint flush coloured her cheeks as, haltingly, she told him, “He was about fifty, I'd say, with thinning grey hair. Quite a stocky build. His clothes were shabby, so I'm surprised he could afford Mr Moon's fees. He seemed nervous. He almost dropped the tea Mr Moon asked me to make for them.”

Rafferty was astonished that she had been so observant. Most people barely noticed what day it was, never mind anything else. Still, it was fortunate for them that she had. “These cups – I gather you washed them up?” There had been none on the desk or in the sink.

She nodded. “Washed, dried and put away. Mr Astell's always very firm about the place looking clean and tidy.” She shivered, as a cold wind whistled along the High Street. It lifted the previous night's litter and whirled it in a fitful dance about their ankles. Someone had discarded a blue and red striped umbrella in the gutter. The material fluttered in the wind as though trying to rise – its spine broken if not its spirit, thought Rafferty whimsically as he watched it – only to sink back again after each abortive effort. Then, the wind dropped, the umbrella accepted its fate and lay still. Rafferty made a mental note to tell the SOCOs to pick it up, just in case it had any connection with the case.

Mrs Hadleigh shivered again and Rafferty took her arm. “It's too chilly here to chat. Could you come to the station and help our Photo-fit expert construct a picture of this client? What you've told us is very important. Apart from the murderer, this Mr Henderson may have been the last person to see Mr Moon alive.”

She hesitated again, and then gave an anxious little nod. Rafferty guessed she was concerned about being late for the next cleaning job of the morning and he reassured her. “I'm sure it won't take long.” He helped her up and led her over to the car. “I'll arrange for a car to take you home – or wherever else you need to go – afterwards. Llewellyn.” He tossed the car keys to the Welshman. “You can drive.” Rafferty only hoped it would help take his mind off their next appointment.

As
soon as they had deposited Mrs Hadleigh with the Photo-fit man, and Rafferty had uttered further assurances, they left them to it. There was too much work ahead of them to spare any of it holding a witness's hand. “Right,” he said. “Let's get on with it. I want you to send WPC Green along to the local Astrological Society. Astell said he and Moon were both members. I also want her to go to the TV Studios where Moon did his morning show. Tell her to ask around and see what she can find out. About Moon, Astell, the rest of the staff and the set up there.” Liz Green was good with people, Rafferty knew. Had a way of drawing them out – just like Moon. “Get someone to contact the editors of the magazines he supplied with astrological forecasts. He'd worked for several of them for some time – might learn something interesting.” He paused, thinking. “Oh, and get Moon's phone checked out. I want to know what numbers were called on it. Come back when you've got all that organised and we'll go and see the boyfriend.”

Rafferty
could almost believe that the wind, which had seemed to quieten while they were in the station, had waited for them to re-emerge onto the street, before reasserting itself. Its icy breath was bitter and shrieked painfully in his ears. He tugged his coat collar as high over his ears as it would reach, and put up with it. It was only a short walk to Moon's home in Quaker Street, not worth a car ride. Moon's flat was in the old Dutch quarter of town, a chic, expensive area, which confirmed that star gazing was a profitable line.

The man who opened the door to their knock was fat, fair and fiftyish. Rafferty was surprised. He had expected a much younger man; the equivalent of the bimbo that successful heterosexual males liked to hang from their arm. “Mr Farley?” Rafferty queried.

He nodded and gave them a hesitant, questioning smile that didn't reach his eyes, which were a flat green colour and reminded Rafferty of those of a snake. They slid rapidly from Rafferty to Llewellyn and back again before he asked politely, “What can I do for you?”

Farley's voice was well-modulated, though Rafferty got the impression it was practised rather than natural. Rafferty showed him his warrant card and introduced himself and Llewellyn. “Perhaps we might come in?” Rafferty suggested. “I'm afraid we have some bad news for you.”

Farley stared at him. His skin flushed and then the colour receded, leaving two stark pink blotches high up on his cheeks. Surprisingly elegant fingers clutched at each other as he exclaimed, “Oh, God, something's happened to Jasper, hasn't it?” Anxiety had made his voice curiously high-pitched, and now it became even higher. “Tell me, tell me, for the love of God. Has something happened to Jasper?”

Rafferty, mindful of Astell's warning, suggested again, more firmly, “If we could just come in?”

Farley remained planted in the doorway, his expression uncertain, then he stood back to let them in, carefully shutting the door behind them before he clutched Rafferty's arm. “Tell me. Please. What's happened?”

Resisting the impulse to throw off the clinging hand, Rafferty steered him towards what he hoped was the living room. It was a spacious flat, as colourful as Moon's office had been, but without the solar system decor. “I think you should sit down, Mr Farley.” He waited till Farley had perched on the edge of a stark black leather settee before he sat down in the armchair opposite. “I'm afraid Mr Moon is dead. He...”