Death Line (9 page)

Passing them as they entered, Ellen Hadleigh cautioned before closing the door behind them, “Please try to keep it short or I'll be in Mr Astell's bad books. He won't have her upset.”

Even before the door had closed, the hot-house atmosphere of the room engulfed them. Rafferty had felt stifled in the hall, but this room was far more oppressive and must be several degrees hotter. He assumed that the temperature was kept high for Mrs Astell's sake; she was certainly thin enough to need the extra warmth. Rafferty knew she was only 38, but she looked much older, her skin covered with a network of fine lines which gave the impression she might crack at any moment.

Quickly, aware he had been staring, Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn, shuffling forward cautiously, feeling out of place in the dainty room. What with bottles of sleeping pills, and tranquillizers and stomach mixtures littering one table, and photographs and delicate knick-knacks crowded on another, he was scared he would blunder into one of them and break something precious. Strange, Rafferty mused. Why was it that women who seemed to have everything – film stars, models, leisured wives – often found their easy, pampered lives difficult to cope with? So many seemed to develop nervous problems behind which they nursed a drink or drug habit. Rafferty had never understood it. His mother had had more pressures to contend with than most. Left widowed with six kids to support, she had never turned to anything more than the occasional bottle of Babysham to sustain her. Of course, she had barely had enough money to pay the bills, never mind indulge expensive tastes.

He started to sweat, the deodorised male odour mingled with the smells of sickness; of menthol, cough syrup, liniment, and were swallowed up as efficiently as a snapping dog swallows a fly.

Sarah Astell gave them a wan smile. “Do please sit down, gentleman,” she invited, voice weak, the words well-spaced out between shallow breaths. “I imagine you're here about Jasper Moon's death?”

“That's right, Mrs Astell,” Rafferty replied quietly. The heat and the smells in the unventilated room brought back painful memories of his wife's stay in the hospice. Angie's had been a lingering, painful death, the pain not always, at the end, successfully alleviated by drugs. His shoulders hunched as he remembered the rows he'd tried to avoid, the smouldering resentments they had both felt, in his case compounded by guilt that he no longer loved her – if he ever had. He shouldn't shut his mind off from them, his doctor had advised, they should be faced, but Rafferty didn't agree. Dwelling on that time didn't help him come to terms with it; perhaps it never would and now he closed off that section of his brain. Such memories were better confined to the mental dustbin, the lid banged firmly on. Rafferty forced a smile and glanced round for a seat more sturdy than the small, flounced boudoir chair at the end of the day bed. The only other choice was a scarcely more substantial spindly-legged settee. It didn't look strong enough to support him and Llewellyn, and he lowered his lanky body gingerly.

“It's Louis Quinze,” Llewellyn whispered in his ear, in tones of admiration as he sat beside him.

Louis was welcome to it, thought Rafferty, as he shifted his buttocks on the inadequately stuffed cushions. Style was all very well, he thought, but did it have to be so bloody uncomfortable?

“My husband told me what happened, Inspector. Most reluctantly, I need hardly add. He's always trying to shield me from unpleasantness.” She directed an anxious smile at them, as though doubtful that they would be as considerate of her feelings as her husband. “I'm sure Mrs Hadleigh thinks I'm very spoilt. Of course, he was worried it would upset me.”

If she was upset by Jasper Moon's murder, she hid it well, thought Rafferty. After all, Moon had been her husband's partner for two years and Astell had worked for him for three before that; she must surely have known him quite well. “Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you knew of Jasper Moon,” he invited. “In a murder investigation, it always helps to get as many views and opinions as possible.”

She sighed. “Speaking ill of the dead is not something I would normally do, Inspector.” She paused, glanced briefly at him and then went on, “But I can see that I must put aside such scruples.” Her brown eyes shadowed, and she admitted, “I never felt comfortable with him. His homosexuality – repelled me.”

Rafferty was glad to learn that he wasn't alone in his political incorrectness. He noticed her voice had now become firm, the invalid's quaver vanished or forgotten as she put aside the rest of her scruples and warmed to her theme.

“But aside from his – homosexuality' – once again, she snapped the word out as if she wanted it said as quickly as possible, as if the very word offended her, 'I always felt he took unfair advantage of Edwin; the times he left him holding the fort while he jetted off round the world seeing his star clients. And thoughtless – in the years he and Edwin worked together, he never managed to send his birthday card on the correct day. It was always late. I don't know why he bothered at all if he couldn't take the trouble to get it right.”

She sat back, with an exasperated smile. “Edwin insisted he didn't mind, and of course, as I made a point of avoiding Moon, I hardly had an opportunity to point it out to him. Not that I would have done, anyway. Edwin warned me it would only embarrass both of them if I did so, so, for Edwin's sake, I put up with the annual irritation it caused me.” Her expression self-deprecating, she added, “Like my dear father, I've always believed a wife's role to be a secondary, supportive one, Inspector. I'm sure you agree.”

After a wry glance at Llewellyn, whose girlfriend inclined more to the feminist persuasion, Rafferty nodded politely. Personally, he agreed with Llewellyn, that women who always put themselves second were fools. No-one respected a doormat. But Sarah Astell seemed proud of her boot-wiping quality.

Rafferty remembered now that Astell had told them he put a lot of his wife's trouble squarely at her father's door. “Sarah adored him,” he had told them. “But he was seldom at home and even when he was, he paid her scant attention. She became anorexic in her teens, but that's been under control for years and her weight's steady, though she doesn't seem to improve at all. Still,” he had added on a bright note, as if that were all he could hope for, “the doctors are pleased with her.”

Looking at her now, Rafferty concluded that Mrs Astell's doctors must be easily pleased. She couldn't weigh any more than eight stone, low for someone whose long limbs looked as if, standing, she'd be about 5′8″. She must still eat like a sparrow.

“No,” Sarah Astell continued. “I didn't like him. I made a point of meeting him as little as possible, that's why I never went to my husband's business premises. Even when Edwin first started to work for him, there was something about him that made me uneasy. Oh, he was pleasant enough to me then, went out of his way to be attentive, even insisted on drawing up a natal chart for me. But lately, he had begun to make disparaging remarks about my father. I think he was jealous of him, of his reputation. I don't suppose he thought they'd get back to me, but they did. He might have brought in a lot of business, but money has never been that important to Edwin or me.” She smiled her taut smile. “We live simply. Neither of us is extravagant. We have each other, our daughter and our lovely home. What more could anyone want?”

“It's certainly a beautiful house,” Rafferty agreed.

He had evidently hit the right note, for she smiled warmly at him. “Yes, we're lucky. This house has been in my mother's family for generations. Of course, the grounds used to be more extensive, but land had to be sold to pay death duties. My mother's now married to a well-set up man and lives in Scotland. She gave this place to me when she remarried, and, of course, as I was an only child – my parents waited ten years for me – I had no brothers or sisters to demand their share.” With an unconscious arrogance, she added, “Perhaps you know that my father was Sir Alan Carstairs?” She nodded at a framed coloured photograph which held pride of place on one wall. Under flopping dark hair, Alan Carstairs stared back at them from clear blue eyes. He had been a handsome man and his expression implied that he had been well aware of it. “He was a very successful society photographer in the fifties and sixties,” she told them. “I'm sure you've heard of him.”

They nodded in unison, and while Llewellyn proceeded to draw her out, talking knowledgeably of photography in that reserved manner that women seemed to find so endearing, Rafferty let his mind and his eyes roam. Astell had told him she had adored her father even though he had neglected her. Rafferty could see why. The photograph was of a man in his prime, self-assured, good-looking, vigorous. A man who turned heads and attracted admirers with no effort at all. A man who was perhaps a little spoilt, a little selfish, but understandably so. A fast-living extrovert, Carstairs, when he wasn't racing round the world snapping the famous of the day, had been the subject of other photographers' lenses. Newspaper snaps of him had invariably featured him in some exotic part of the world, beautiful women draped around him. The man had seemed to trail an ever-changing harem, and Rafferty wondered what his wife had thought of her husband's lifestyle.

Carstairs might have paid his daughter scant attention, but at least he appeared to have left her well supplied with filthy lucre. And, he noticed, for a woman who didn't like visitors, she seemed to have blossomed under Llewellyn's attentions. The invalid's rug had been completely discarded and she sat forward, her face animated, hands expressive as they discussed her father's genius. Rafferty returned from his wool-gathering just as Llewellyn's social skills gave out.

Now he asked, “I understand you and your husband were at home on the night Mr Moon died?”

“That's right. I imagine Edwin's told you it was the anniversary of my dear father's death? I kept the gathering small this year, just my husband, myself, Mrs Moreno whom my husband employs and Clara Davies, an old friend of my father. She was a very talented designer and often went on location with him. But even though the gathering was small, I still insisted on black tie. I like to mark the occasion with a proper respect. I even managed to persuade Edwin to buy a new suit this year while we were in Elmhurst, though, of course, he kept putting it off and left it too late to get his usual made-to measure.” Unexpectedly, she glanced at Rafferty in his tired suit and gave him an arch smile. “You men and your comfortable old clothes, how you do cling onto them.”

Ruefully, Rafferty looked down at his best brown suit. Perhaps it was past its prime, he thought, as he stretched his legs out and studied the worn, shiny hillocks that stood away from his knees.

Edwin Astell appeared in the doorway. “Hello. Mrs Hadleigh said you were here.” He glanced at his wife. “Are you all right, dear? You look rather flushed. My wife tires easily, Inspector, as I told you. I hope you've not been wearing her out.”

“Don't fuss, Edwin,” she chided, though Rafferty noticed she looked pleased at his concern. “We've been having a nice little chat about my father.” She drew her lips back. 'And that business with Moon, of course.

Rafferty turned to Astell. “I meant to ask you before, sir. I gather Jasper Moon was the victim's professional name? Can you tell me his real name?”

Astell studied his wife's flushed features with a frown before he told them, “Sorry, no. I've always known him as Jasper Moon. I've no idea what he might have been called before.”

Rafferty was surprised. “He never mentioned it?”

Astell shook his head. “I did ask him once, but it was clear he wasn't interested in discussing it. I never brought it up again. It was none of my business.”

“We found a letter addressed to a Peter Hedges amongst his personal effects,” Rafferty remarked. “We wondered if that might be it?” Neither of the Astells had any comment to make on that and Rafferty went on. “Never mind, we'll no doubt soon find out his real name.”

Sarah Astell's brief spurt of energy hadn't lasted long. The flush in her cheeks had now vanished, leaving her paler than before. Rafferty, feeling a little guilty that their visit should have such a tiring effect on her, remarked pleasantly, “Rather unfortunate that Mr Moon should have been murdered on the anniversary of your father's death, Mrs Astell.”

She gave a brief, strained smile. “Yes. It was my birthday also, you know. I always felt that gave me a special bond with my father.” Her smile faded. “But as you say, now I'll have other memories.”

“I hope it won't mar the occasion too much for you in the future?”

No longer chatty, Sarah Astell merely bobbed her head in acknowledgement.

Rafferty turned back to Astell. “I just want to go through one or two points, sir. I hope you'll bear with me. I gather you and your guests were all together for most of the evening?”

“That's right,” Astell told him. “As I told you, our guests left around 8.00 p m or just after. Mrs Hadleigh left a little before then as she was feeling unwell and obviously unfit to do any work. She sounded quite dreadful when I rang her later to see if she was all right. She lives alone,” he explained, “and I was concerned for her. But she wouldn't hear of me calling the doctor.” He shrugged. “People of that age are very independent. Anyway, once our guests had gone, I made a start on clearing the dishes to give my wife a little time alone with her memories of her father. She always likes some quiet time on anniversary evenings.”

“But Edwin came in several times to see I was all right, didn't you, dear?”

Astell stared at her for a few seconds, as though his thoughts were miles away. “Sorry. Yes, of course. I didn't think you'd noticed. I popped in at about 8.10 p m just after Mrs Moreno returned for her gloves and then again, about 8.25 p m. As I told you, Inspector, we chatted in the kitchen for about forty minutes and she left about 8.50 p m.”