Death Line Read online

  There was the expected mix of willowy queens and butch, leather types that frequent any homosexual haunt, but nothing too overt. After all this was Elmhurst, not Soho.

  “Henry.” Shuffling his feet and trying to ignore the whispered comments behind them, Rafferty greeted the landlord and introduced Llewellyn.

  In front of the customers, Henry always pretended he didn't know any of the local police. Now, with an arch smile, he ignored Rafferty's greeting, and went into a well-worn routine for the benefit of his customers. “What'll it be, dears? I do a nice line in Harvey Wallbangers. Or else there's a Long Sloe Screw Against the Wall.”

  Rafferty smiled thinly. “Too rich for my blood. I'll have a half of Elgood's bitter, and my friend,” this produced a titter from behind them, “my friend will have an orange juice. I imagine you've heard about Jasper Moon's murder,” he murmured when the landlord had brought the drinks.

  Henry immediately dropped his comic turn, and nodded soberly. “We're all pretty cut up about it. You in charge of the case, then?” Rafferty nodded. “I hope you get the bastard who did it.”

  Rafferty sipped his bitter, savouring its delicate hop aroma. He was surprised that Henry should be so amenable. In front of his customers, too. It was far from usual amongst homosexuals, even in a murder case. “He must have been well known around here,” he commented, “with his morning television spot and so on.”

  “Quite a regular was Jasper, when he was at home. He liked to sit on that stool there in the corner of the bar.”

  “Known him long? Like before he needed to change his name?”

  Henry studied him for a moment, nodded, then told him quietly, “Wondered how quickly you'd find out about that. I knew him slightly years ago, long before he began calling himself Moon, though as he seems unwilling to talk about those days, or the court case, I've never pushed it. Used to go to my parents' restaurant when he worked for that photographer chap Alan Carstairs.”

  Rafferty raised his head. “Hold on. I didn't know Moon had worked for Alan Carstairs. How long ago was this?”

  “Oh, years and years ago.” Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Must be knocking on for forty years ago now. He only worked for him for a year or two, though. Must have decided working for such a prima donna wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Never showed his face in The George again, that much I do know. Didn't set eyes on him again myself till I opened this place.”

  Rafferty nodded. It explained why Sarah Astell hadn't known Moon. He'd have been long gone before she was born.

  Henry went on. “Carstairs could be demanding, I know, because years later, my parents' held his daughter's twenty-first birthday bash in their function room. In the October of the Queen's Jubilee year it was. It was the only function he ever booked at The George, though you'd swear he entertained there all the time and contributed to half the profits from the way he threw his weight around. I wouldn't mind, but he didn't exactly push the boat out when it came to spending his money. Had the cheapest set menu. With a man like that, you'd have thought he'd have had marquees on the lawn and an orchestra, but not a bit of it. Still, even if he wasn't mum's favourite customer, he was very well known.” Henry grinned and nodded towards the wall of famous faces and Rafferty followed his gaze to the family group around the birthday cake. “She made sure she got him on film during the birthday bash. She was determined to get something other than complaints and a stingy cut-price cheque out of him for being such a pain.”

  “You were telling us about Moon,” Rafferty reminded him when Henry dried up.

  ‘So I was. Anyway, when he left Carstairs', he decided to take up art again, only this time as a teacher. But obviously, you know all about that.'

  Rafferty nodded. “What about Terry Hadleigh? We understood he came in here sometimes. Have you seen him recently?”

  The landlord shook his head. “Can't say I have. Rarely comes in now. I heard he spends most of his time in London. Why?” Henry's gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Think he did it?”

  “Just routine enquiries,” Rafferty quickly answered. Even though the landlord seemed anxious for Moon's killer to be caught, he might just clam up if he thought they suspected another homosexual of killing him, even a low-life like Hadleigh. “Did you ever see them together in here?”

  'No. But then I'm not here every night. Got another pub ten miles away now. I spend half the week there.

  Rafferty nodded and said, “It would help if we could eliminate Hadleigh from our investigation. Did he have any particular friends here? Someone who might be able to tell us where we could find him?”

  The landlord shook his head. It seemed Beard's information had been stale, as Henry added, “I don't encourage my place to be used as a pick-up joint. Got my licence to think of. Not that Terry Hadleigh was ever too popular, anyway. Reckon he'd have trouble giving it away now, last I saw of him.”

  “What about Jasper Moon? Did he have any particular friends?” Llewellyn asked. “Anyone he was close to?”

  “Apart from his live-in boyfriend, you mean? No. Jasper was friendly with everyone, but he didn't play away from home if that's what you mean. At least, he hadn't.” The landlord frowned, “But now you mention it, there had been rumours recently that he was seeing someone else. Jasper was very close-mouthed about it, but I'm pretty sure he had a regular thing with someone in his office on Thursday evenings. It's probably why Jazz refused to give Farley a key to the building. It was the only place he could get away from him.”

  “Did he want to get away from him?”

  “I would if I'd been him. Farley – that's the boyfriend – is the jealous type. Wanted to keep Jazz to himself. I think he was scared stiff he'd lose him. Jasper was a bit of a soft touch, to tell you the truth. He even gave that red-headed termagant Ginnie Campbell a job when she was on her uppers, though we all told him he'd regret it. Jazz just said that providing she didn't dip her fingers in the till she could have a job with him for as long as she needed it. Dishonesty amongst friends was his pet hate, you see. Thought it showed the worst sort of disloyalty. Funny really, as I gather he wasn't above buying things off the back of a lorry when it suited him. Still, takes all sorts.”

  Interested to discover that Henry knew of Moon's little hobby, Rafferty questioned him further, but it was apparent that the landlord had no idea of the identity of Moon's supplier.

  “Farley didn't like him doing favours for other people,” the landlord confided, returning to his earlier point. “If he wasn't sulking about that, he made scenes when Jasper bought a round of drinks; anyone would think it was his money. Jasper was an open-handed guy; he earned a lot and he spent a lot. We all liked him. But as for that Farley.... We all wondered what Jazz saw in him.”

  “You can say that again. Chris Farley is a prize bitch.”

  Rafferty turned to find himself face to face with a slender youth in pale blue, blonde hair curled becomingly around his collar. The landlord excused himself to serve a customer at the other end of the bar, and the youth enlarged on his previous comment.

  “Farley has upset most of the people in this bar at one time or another. Used to come in here wearing that showy black cape of Jasper's, the little hair he's got swept back, just like he was Count Dracula or something. He could certainly bite. Draw blood, too, sometimes. We're all sorry that Jasper's gone, but you won't find many in here offering Christian Farley a shoulder to cry on.” He leant forward conspiratorially. “Actually, I got the impression that Jasper was tiring of him. Not surprising, of course, because as Jasper became more well known, started appearing on television and so on, Farley became even more jealous. He's thrown a few tantrums in here, I can tell you. All over nothing. Jasper wasn't into playing around. At least, if he was, he'd been reasonably discreet about it. Until these recent rumours that is.”

  Rafferty got the impression the youth had hoped to step into Farley's shoes.

  “I did wonder if he'd met up again with someone from his past, the great love of his life.
He only talked about it when he had one over the eight and got maudlin' and then he let slip that there was one ruined relationship he would always regret.” The blonde sighed. “That was some torch he was carrying. No wonder Farley was prone to jealousy. There's nothing as difficult to compete with as the ghost of a past love.” His expression as blue as the dregs of his cocktail, he brightened when Rafferty offered to buy him another.

  As soon as it was served, he resumed his story. “Jazz was popular, always willing to do a reading for nothing. He liked to flirt, but it was no more than that. He put up with a lot from Farley. I'm amazed Jasper hadn't thrown him out months ago.”

  Rafferty concluded from this that Moon had received more than enough encouragement to do so. He wondered if Moon had been carrying on a secret affair? But whether he had or not, Rafferty felt he'd certainly learned sufficient to turn Farley into one of the chief suspects, and he trawled his net a little wider to see what else he could pick up. “I hear Terry Hadleigh comes in here, too, sometimes. Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?”

  The blond looked piqued. “Do you mind? Me, friends with that little tart? There's no need to be insulting.”

  Rafferty sighed. Telling himself he should have got the tactful Llewellyn to do the questioning, he tried again. “Do you know if he was a particular friend of Jasper Moon?”

  “I'm sure I couldn't say. I'm not a dating agency, dear. I don't keep tabs on every little sexuel divertissement that goes on around here. And it's not as if Jasper came in here that often. He was always flying off somewhere.”

  Rafferty had another word with the landlord. But as he told him that no-one else in the pub had known Terry Hadleigh well, or would be likely to know where to find him, they finished their drinks and left.

  “Interesting that Moon had worked for Alan Carstairs at one time,” Llewellyn commented.

  “It would be more interesting if it hadn't been so long ago,” Rafferty replied. “Sarah Astell didn't mention it, though I doubt she knew. Alan Carstairs seems the type to have got through employees at a great rate of knots. I imagine Moon was one in a very long line. Remind me to ask her about it, though. Just to clear the matter up.” They got in the car and Rafferty started the engine. “Next stop Ellen Hadleigh. Let's hope she has some idea where Terry might be and that she's willing to tell us.” He jerked his head back towards the pub. 'Even though Carstairs doesn't appear to have been one of his successes, it seems Moon was a past master at winning friends and influencing people.

  “When you're successful, everyone wants to be your friend,” Llewellyn commented succinctly.

  Smiling sourly, Rafferty asked, “Where'd you get that little homily from? Another of your know-all Greek chums, I suppose?”

  Llewellyn nodded. “Ovid, as it happens. From his Tris-”

  “I've got another one for you – a murder victim becomes everyone's best buddy even quicker – that's from Rafferty's Ruminations. And even if Moon's turned into some kind of plaster saint now he's dead, the boyfriend hasn't. And he's the jealous type. I wonder if he suspected that Moon was seeing someone else? Perhaps, when we've seen Ellen Hadleigh, we ought to go and visit Farley again? As far as possible suspects go, he seems to be fast coming up on Terry Hadleigh's heels. It might be worth checking out his alibi again.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ellen Hadleigh lived near the railway station, in a flat on a Council estate. Rafferty knew from the frequent police call-outs that this was where the Council housed their more troublesome tenants, though he doubted Mrs Hadleigh came into that category. Her respectability would be used as a barrier against her neighbours; having heard what Beard had said about her son, he realised why she should need that barrier. They would know all about Terry's arrests for soliciting; he had featured in the local paper on several occasions, even if, as Beard had said, it had been some time ago. She'd lived alone since her son had moved out.

  The Council seemed to have spared every expense in maintaining the estate. Most of the shed doors had been pulled off their hinges, the bricks enclosing the weed and litter-filled flowerbeds were tumbling down, and, from the roof, a steady cascade of rainwater splashed noisily on the cracked paving.

  Rafferty checked his notebook as another train clattered past. Ellen Hadleigh lived at number thirty nine, on the third floor. Glad to get out of the relentless downpour, which had continued with barely a break for the best part of a week, they walked through to the lift. Predictably, it smelled of stale urine. Rafferty wrinkled his nose and while Llewellyn tried to get the lift to work, he studied the graffiti adorning its walls.

  "Sharon loves Tracey", confided one epistle. Another declared, "Tracey loves Shane". A third said, "Get out of this lift, you ugly bastards". The rest, mercifully, were in an unreadable, semi-illiterate scrawl. Rafferty's spirits drooped. He was glad to get out of the stinking little grey box when Llewellyn told him the lift seemed to be out of order.

  They trudged up stairs littered with discarded contraceptives and dried pools of vomit. A young girl of about eighteen passed them as they reached the third flight of stairs. She was pale-faced and dull eyed, as though robbed of her spirit by her soulless environment. She carried a fat, grizzling toddler under one arm and a fold-up pushchair under the other. Llewellyn, ever the gentleman, offered to carry the heavy child down for her and was rewarded with a suspicious look from under spiky blonde hair. Clutching the baby more tightly, she hurried past them. The little boy, presumably frightened by the sudden acceleration of their descent, screamed and his cries echoed and re-echoed painfully round the concrete stairwell.

  “That'll teach you to accost strange young women,” Rafferty remarked. “Surely your mother told you it wasn't a good idea?”

  Llewellyn's long face grew morose, his expression that of a misunderstood Victorian gentleman whose hobby of saving fallen women was being wilfully misinterpreted. “I only wanted to help her. Surely she didn't think I was...?”

  “For God's sake, Dafyd, of course she did.” It was a constant source of amused amazement to Rafferty that, for all Llewellyn's superior university education, he could still be surprisingly naive about some things. Of course, he had spent a large part of his youth living the unworldly country life of a Welsh minister's dutiful son. Showed what too much religion could do to a man, thought Rafferty. Thank God he'd never taken to it. “Listen Einstein. Her fellow tenants don't live in your particular intellectual ivory tower, unfortunately for her – more like Sodom and Gomorrah. For all she knew, we could have been rapists operating in tandem. Wouldn't you be scared to meet two "ugly bastards" like us if you were on your own? The poor bitch probably gets accosted on these stairs several times a week.” He punched Llewellyn lightly on the arm. “Never mind, I know your intentions were strictly honourable. Come on. It's up here.”

  Number thirty nine was at the end of the balcony. As Llewellyn knocked on the door, Rafferty studied the exterior of the flat. Although the door, in common with the rest of the block, needed a coat of paint, the knocker gleamed from a regular and vigorous application of polish.

  The door opened a mere four inches, restricted by the cheap security chain, and Ellen Hadleigh's face peered suspiciously out at them. “Oh.” Her expression stiffened as she recognised them. “It's you. What do you want? I've told you all I know.”

  Llewellyn, presumably still put out by the incident on the stairs, and unwilling to conduct the interview on the landing, had lost some of the shine from his usually impeccable manners. “So, you're saying you had no idea that Jasper Moon used to be known as Peter Hedges and that he assaulted your son as a boy?”

  She quickly denied it. “Of course I didn't.” As usual, with unpractised liars, she tried too hard to justify her lies and forgot to voice shock, dismay horror at what was supposedly unwelcome news. “How could I know such a thing when I never saw the man but the once? He was away in America when I started there and even when he returned shortly before his death, he never arrived till after I'd finish
ed my work and gone. It was only the night of his death that I set eyes on him and that was for a matter of seconds.”

  Far from satisfied with her answers, Rafferty persuaded her to let them in. Her face withdrew and the door closed. It opened again a moment later, with a noisy rattle as the chain was released. About to remove his coat when she invited them to sit down, Rafferty kept it on instead, as he realised the room was like an ice box. He wondered how she managed? Presumably, the only income she had was a small State pension and whatever she could pick up through various cleaning jobs. How often did she sit alone and in pain, unable to afford to heat the freezing room adequately? He guessed that her poverty was of that proud variety that would spurn any offers of charity, though he rather doubted any would be likely to be offered, anyway. With charity, as with everything else in life, those who shouted loudest got the most.

  As though she had read his mind, she leaned forward in her chair and turned the gas fire on. Her manner defensive, she explained, “I'm sorry it's so cold in here. I've been doing my housework, so I didn't bother to put it on.”

  Rafferty nodded, happy to collude in the lie that the chill of the room was from choice rather than necessity. But how likely was it, he asked himself, that she would do her housework in what looked like her best dress? A long-sleeved, high-necked navy affair that gave the appearance of semi-mourning. “You were saying you had seen Jasper Moon once only, for a period of seconds, and had no idea that he was Peter Hedges,” he began, taking over where Llewellyn had left off. “Yet Jasper Moon was well known. He was the astrologer on several glossy women's magazines, with his photograph prominent at the top of the page. He appeared on morning television. You had many opportunities to see his face and recognise him. Surely-”