Death Line (7 page)

Christian Farley's hands flew to his face and he stared at them over his fingers, shaking his head all the while. His shock seemed genuine, Rafferty noted. What he could see of his fair-skinned face was pasty. Small fists now pressed against his mouth, Farley moaned, rocking to and fro on the leather settee. It creaked protestingly with each movement.

Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn for moral support. As expected, the Welshman avoided his eye and stared determinedly over Farley's head. Rafferty struggled on, silently cursing Llewellyn and wishing he'd brought a WPC with him. “I'm afraid it's true, sir. He was found dead in his office this morning by his business partner.” He paused to gather strength and then said quickly, “I have to tell you that he was murdered.”

Farley's hands came away from his face. His mouth fell open, and silently, he repeated Rafferty's last word, before he recommenced his rocking, his movements accompanied by the off-key complaints of the settee. Rafferty, at a loss, instinctively followed his ma's usual response in a crisis, and ordered Llewellyn to find the kitchen and make tea. With an alacrity to obey his orders that – under other circumstances, would have been gratifying – Llewellyn went. He was gone some time, and if Rafferty hadn't known better, he would have suspected he was hunting for a bottle of Dutch courage.

By the time Llewellyn returned with the tea Farley had quietened. He sat huddled in the middle of the big settee, looking lost, making no response to Rafferty's awkward sympathetic overtures. Llewellyn gave Farley's shoulder a tentative pat, put the tea on the table in front of him and retreated to the far side of the room. Rafferty, who had confidently predicted tears, noted that Farley's eyes were dry. They appeared puzzled, his forehead faintly creased, as if he was thinking through what he had learned. He turned questioning eyes to Rafferty. “You said Jasper was murdered. Have you any idea who by?”

Rafferty shook his head. “Not yet. It's possible Mr Moon disturbed a burglar, as his office was broken into.”

Farley exclaimed, “Not again!”

“I'm sorry?”

“We were burgled here earlier this year. While we were on one of Jas, Jasper's regular trips to The States. And now you say Jasper's office was broken into and Jasper murdered.” He worried at his bottom lip. “And I thought...” He broke off. “It's almost as if someone has a grudge against us.” The possibility, not unnaturally, seemed to unnerve him. As he picked up his tea, the cup, rattled against the saucer, betraying his agitation.

Rafferty had never liked coincidences. And although there had been a spate of burglaries in the town in recent months, he felt that this coincidence might be of more significance than most. “What was taken from the flat, sir?”

Farley glanced up with a start. “Very little, that's what was so surprising. They even left the video and the TV. Jasper's study desk and both our bedrooms had been gone through, but, apart from some jewellery, nothing else of value was taken. What was taken from Jasper's office?”

“A sum of money.”

Farley's gaze narrowed. His green eyes accentuated by the daylight that streamed in at the windows looked more snakelike than ever, as he asked, “How much?”

“Mr Moon's business partner says £1000.”

Farley digested the information silently for a few seconds. “But, surely...?”

“Yes, sir,” Rafferty encouraged. “You were saying?”

“Nothing.” Farley glanced quickly at him before shaking his head. “It doesn't matter.” He lapsed into silence, but he couldn't seem to help himself, and burst out, “It's just that it seems – odd. If Jasper was-was working, the lights would be on. At least-” He broke off again, before asking hesitantly, “Were they on?” Rafferty nodded, and Farley sat back, his eyes calculating. “Would a burglar break in under such circumstances?”

Unwilling to share his suspicions concerning the burglary with Farley, Rafferty gave him the line he had prepared earlier. “I'm afraid the modern criminal often doesn't care if premises are occupied, sir. Could be a drug addict, desperate enough for money not to bother with the usual precautions. But, at this stage, I'm keeping an open mind.” As he said this, he became conscious of Llewellyn. He was standing, his gaze now fixed on the floor, but Rafferty sensed the thought waves emanating from him. Keeping an open mind? they commented ironically. That must be a first.

After projecting a few strongly-worded thought waves of his own in return, Rafferty concentrated his attention on Farley. “You said you wondered if someone bore Mr Moon a grudge. Do you know if he had any enemies? Someone who had threatened him, perhaps?”

Farley shook his head. “None that I know of. But Jasper was very successful and success always breeds envy, particularly in this country. I'm afraid the British have always found failure a more attractive trait.”

Rafferty had thought he had detected a slight accent. “I take it you're not British, Mr Farley?”

“No. I'm from South Africa. The Cape. But I've lived here for more than twenty years.”

“I understand you've known Mr Moon for five years?”

Farley gave a twisted smile, as though he found Rafferty's biblical phraseology amusing. “Yes, it would have been five years on the 18th of next month. Our Wooden Anniversary. I was going to get Jasper a small carved sculpture of our sun signs, intertwined. Like a lovers' knot, you know?” The thought clearly upset him, for now his eyes held the hint of moisture that thus far had been missing. Turning away, he blew his nose with a feminine neatness.

Rafferty shifted uncomfortably, as the thought struck him that, in Farley's eyes, if not society's, he had been widowed; widowed, moreover, without any of the support a legal widow might expect. He opened his mouth to say something sympathetic, but, realising that anything he said would sound, to Farley, either patronising, trite or insincere, he gave up and waited for Farley to get control of himself, then gently resumed the questioning. “I gather you and Mr Moon lived here together?” Farley nodded. “You must have been concerned when he didn't come home last night.”

“I wasn't here.” He seemed to feel he had to defend himself. “I was visiting a-a friend for a day or two. I only got back this morning. Naturally, I assumed Jasper had gone to work. Of course, if I'd looked in his bedroom, I'd have seen his bed hadn't been slept in.”

So, they slept apart. Rafferty wondered if that was usual in their circumstances? Or whether, like ordinary married couples who chose to sleep separately, it hinted that their relationship had cooled? Had they had an argument? Was that why Farley had gone to see this friend? he wondered, and why the tears had been so long in coming and so sparse? Yet, Farley had been planning to buy Moon an expensive anniversary gift, a gift that showed thought and care, albeit presumably bought with Moon's money. “I'm afraid I'll have to ask you for the name and address of this friend, Mr Farley.”

As he realised the significance of the question, Farley's face flushed, and he opened his mouth as if to protest. But then, presumably thinking better of remonstrating, he told them, “His name's Turner – Andrew Turner.” He added the address.

“I don't like to ask this Mr Farley, but as Mr Moon's been murdered, it will be necessary for us to look through his things to see if we can find anything that might help our investigations.”

Farley frowned. “What sort of thing?”

“It's hard to say. Could be a letter, or a diary. Anything that might help us discover if anyone did have a grudge against him. Where would he be likely to keep such things?”

“In his bedroom or study, I imagine.”

The study was small, no more than twelve feet square. Rafferty guessed this was where Moon had given consultations for intimates. Apart from a computer of the same make as the one in Moon's office, it contained similar books, works by past, presumably revered practitioners of their art; a chap called Cheiro seemed to feature prominently, Rafferty noticed. As soon as Farley left, they began their search in earnest.

Moon was a hoarder. They found piles of circulars, newspaper cuttings featuring the dead man, as well as a yellowing reminder from The Blood Donor Centre to somebody called Hedges.

“Hedges,” Rafferty murmured, as he showed the reminder to Llewellyn. “Reckon that was Moon's real name?”

“Possibly. It shouldn't be difficult to find out. Farley must know.”

Rafferty nodded and put the letter in his pocket. Eager to shake off the feelings of inadequacy he had felt in Farley's presence, he joked, “Reminds me of one of the old Hancock's Half Hour series on the telly. The one about the blood donor. Do you remember the bit where he says to the doctor-”

“I rarely watch television,” Llewellyn interrupted. “But I think that was before my time, anyway.”

Reminded that another birthday was looming, Rafferty said tartly, “It's available on video. You should get it. Tony Hancock might be dead, but then, so are those ancient Greeks you're so fond of quoting, and at least he's a damn sight more entertaining.” Disgruntled, he carried on with the search.

In one of the desk drawers, he found a stack of autographed photographs of Moon. His signature was written with such an exuberant flourish that Rafferty's lip curled. “Jasper Moon,” he snorted. “What sort of a name is that, anyway?”

“Mr Astell said it was originally the victim's professional name. But I gather he legally adopted it as his own years ago.”

“What did he want with a professional name?” Rafferty scoffed. “The man was nothing more than a glorified end of pier charlatan.”

“Your prejudices are showing, sir,” Llewellyn remarked laconically. “Have you forgotten the superintendent's politeness programme? I suspect that when he finally realises the descriptive qualities of that acronym with which you provided him, like Shylock, he'll be satisfied with nothing less than his pound of flesh – your flesh. If you don't want to supply him with an extra knife, it might be wise to keep such opinions to yourself.”

Rafferty knew he was right. It had been idiotic of him to give into the impulse when Bradley had asked for suggestions. But he had a perverse, anti-authority streak, which he guessed stemmed from his schooldays. Ironic, really, that he had fallen – or been pushed – into the police force, the most authoritarian career of them all. The trouble was that the pompous Bradley brought this perverse streak out in spades. At least, this time, his imprudence had provided him with ample amusement, he reflected, even if Bradley did cut him into collops for his trouble. “I'll be careful, don't worry. Anyway, if he doesn't like being considered a pimp, he shouldn't act like one.”

Llewellyn shrugged, as much as to say, Don't say I didn't warn you, before adding, “It'll probably amuse you to know that Moon chose the name Jasper because he thought it singularly appropriate to his skills. It means "Treasure Master", the treasure, in this case, presumably being knowledge.”

Rafferty's lips turned down. “It seems to me his greatest talent was for acquiring booty. Look around you,” he invited, as he pointed out the expensive knick-knacks scattered around the room. “This place is more like Blackbeard's den than a study.” He stuffed Moon's stack of photographs in his jacket pocket. At least they'd come in handy for the house to house enquiries.

They turned up the dead man's passport. As expected, it was in the name of Moon. There was no sign of a Will or a birth certificate. Probably sprang to life from under a moonbeam, thought Rafferty sourly. His rummaging dislodged yet another photograph, this time a dog-eared black and white snapshot featuring a smiling, gummy-mouthed infant. The year 1956 was inscribed on the back. Rafferty thrust the photo back in the drawer. “Let's take a look in the bedroom.”

The bedroom contained a television and video, with a stack of popular film tapes stored underneath. Surprisingly, he found a single tape in Moon's wardrobe. It was right at the back of the top shelf, stashed behind some shoe boxes. It looked different from the rest. It was in a plain, but distinctive emerald green video case with an advertising sticker from a firm called Memory Lane Videos, who specialised in transferring old cine film to video.

Curious to discover why anyone should attempt to conceal one tape, Rafferty switched on the TV and video and inserted it. “If we're to catch the killer, we'd better try to learn something more of the victim,” he commented, as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps this will tell us something useful?”

From the name on the box, he had expected some footage from Moon's youth, but as the film started to roll and he realised that the film didn't contain happy family memorabilia at all, his stomach muscles tightened in embarrassment. It was one of those terribly arty, sensitive films about homosexual love. Amateurishly done, it had a dated, forties look. The two naked young men caressing each other under the trees sported short back and sides haircuts. One had the kind of profile that belonged on Roman coins; the other seemed as keen on making love to the camera lens as to his companion. Rafferty was disconcerted when the Narcissus on the grass stared unselfconsciously back at him, and he dropped his gaze. Neither of them was Moon, who, anyway, could have been no more than eight or ten years old at the time.

The car visible through the shrubbery also had a dated look. It was parked in front of a large country house, the edge of which was just visible in the film and provided a backdrop for the embracing figures.

“Isn't that an old Wolseley?” Rafferty mumbled idiotically, unwilling to turn the film off and reveal how embarrassed it made him feel.