Death Line Page 13

  “Quite likely, as it's obviously a very upmarket fabric. If it's a help, there was no blood on them. We'll be giving them a few more tests, anyway. But, I thought I'd update you on what we've got so far.”

  “Thanks AA. You'll let me know if you come up with anything further?”

  “You bet.”

  They had an early night. They deserved it, Rafferty decided. Llewellyn rang Maureen and arranged to meet her. Unexpectedly, he asked Rafferty to join them. “We're going to The Red Lion in The High Street,” he told him.

  “What?” Rafferty grinned. “The original teetotal Taffy in a pub? Don't tell me Maureen's finally persuaded you to abandon your youthful vow?”

  “No.” Llewellyn's lips moved a fraction closer to his ears, so Rafferty knew he was smiling. “They serve coffee – cappuccino. Maureen introduced me to it.”

  “Very nice, too. So what are we waiting for? Lead me on to this up-market oasis, MacDaff. With my open and shut case looking decidedly iffy, I'm in need of some consolation.”

  When he got to the pub, Rafferty's earlier mood of high optimism slid even further away. Although Llewellyn and Maureen made strenuous efforts to include him in their conversation, keeping the discussion suitably low-brow for Rafferty's benefit, every so often it would veer off back to their more intellectual interests and he would feel out of it. He offered to buy the next round and escaped to the bar. While he waited at the counter, he glanced back at the intimate corner booth. Llewellyn's and Maureen's heads were bent close together over the table – probably taking the opportunity for a quick enthuse about some Greek or Latin know-all while he was at the bar, thought Rafferty morosely. Whatever they were discussing, they were so completely absorbed in it and each other, so natural, so right together and so obviously a twosome, that any third party trying to share their intimacy was bound to feel like the biggest, greenest and hairiest gooseberry on the bush. Or so Rafferty told himself. Only trouble was, it didn't stop the sudden, and totally unexpected tidal wave of jealousy that swamped him, leaving him empty of everything but a deep melancholic well of loneliness as the jealousy drained away.

  Angry with himself, he tried to shrug the feeling off. So he was lonely. So what? he demanded, as he tried to catch the eye of the snail-paced barman. So were countless other people and they got by. Tonight, though, Llewellyn and Maureen's closeness had brought him face to face with his own loneliness, and the feeling refused to be shrugged off. Forced to face it and himself – the first serious confrontation since his wife's death had ended their disastrous marriage, nearly three years ago – he realised he had never experienced the closeness that Llewellyn and Maureen seemed to share – not with anyone; not with his wife, nor with any of the women with whom he had had a series of short relationships both before his marriage and since Angie's death. They had been little more than bodies that he had taken to ease a physical need.

  He knew he was gaining a reputation at the station as something of a Jack the Lad. Mr Love 'Em and Leave 'Em, Mr Screw 'Em and Scarper. This sudden, unexpected insight made him realise that he no longer liked himself very much. I must be getting old, he thought, his face setting in grim lines as he admitted that he was tired of shallow relationships. What he wanted was some easy loving domesticity.

  The admission momentarily unnerved him. Because, if his ma discovered his change of heart she was capable of renewing her matchmaking campaign. And that was the last thing he needed. His ma's idea of what constituted a good wife didn't match his own requirements; childbearing hips were definitely not amongst them. It was only his continuing lack of response that had convinced her she might as well stop parading nubile nuptial prospects for his selection like a madam at a brothel. No, he certainly didn't want her starting that up again. Rafferty was very fond of his ma, but she was a strong-willed woman and had as much staying power as a whalebone corset. If she were ever to guess he had done a volte-face...

  No, he had every intention of finding his own wife. Only, he realised, as he caught the barman's eye and finally got served, he'd better make a wiser selection of soul-mate than he'd managed last time. One unhappy marriage was bad enough, two didn't bear thinking about. He paid for the drinks and headed for the booth. Soon after, Rafferty made his excuses and left. He wasn't good company tonight, he told them, when they protested. And an old man of nearly thirty-eight needed his beauty sleep. They hardly noticed he'd gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rafferty entered the station the next morning deep in thought, and, until one of them hailed him, oblivious to the blur of faces clustered round the drinks machine.

  “Too proud to talk to an old man? Joe?”

  “Hawkeye. Sorry. I'm a bit preoccupied.” Harry "Hawkeye" Harrison had been Rafferty's immediate superior when he had joined the force; he had taught Rafferty a lot, and he had some fond memories of him. Now retired from the police force, Hawkeye worked as a security guard in a tailors in the shopping centre at Great Mannleigh, ten miles to the north. But he missed the camaraderie of the force and often popped in for a chat. “How's tricks?”

  “So-so. Mind I reckon you'll have to start calling me "Bat-eye" soon. That damn security video screen plays havoc with the eyesight.” Whether it did or not, they were still bright with mischief as he asked, “Still single, Joe?”

  Rafferty nodded, waiting, warily, for the usual teasing. But, for once, it didn't come. Instead, Hawkeye's next words highlighted a previously unconsidered advantage to his single state.

  “Lucky bugger. At least you can call your wardrobe your own. Only last week my missus gave away my favourite tweed jacket to Oxfam. Then, she insisted on dragging me round the shops at Great Mannleigh for an hour and a half to get a new one before I started my shift. Saw that astrology chap, Astell, hunting through the rails. You'd think he'd be able to foretell when his wife's about to pull a similar stunt and give away his old penguin suit. Women! Stocking up their own wardrobes should be enough for them without poking about in ours.” With the ease of long practise, Hawkeye glided from small talk to the real reason for the visit. He gave Rafferty a shrewd glance, before asking, “So, how's the murder investigation going?”

  Rafferty scowled. “You know that saying, "slowly, slowly catchee monkey"?” Harrison nodded. “That's how I'm playing it.”

  “That bad, huh? Never mind.” Harrison sympathised. “If Long Pockets complains, you can always tell him you're not only saving the Force's face and fortune by avoiding a court case for wrongful arrest, but you're also preventing the unravelling of the woollen veil he's knitted over the public's eyes with his Politeness programme. What more does he want?” Hawkeye grinned. “He's not twigged the PIMP aspect yet, I take it?”

  Rafferty shook his head. “If he had, you'd have heard his bellow all the way to Great Mannleigh.”

  “True.” They both paused reflectively. Then Hawkeye said, “Shame about Jasper Moon. I rather liked him. He might have put his pecker in peculiar places, but his heart was in the right spot. Ever since I caught those young tearaways who'd been vandalising his street door he always gave a good Christmas bung to the Widows and Orphans fund.”

  Rafferty frowned as yet another witness depicted Moon as aspiring to sainthood. What was it about the man? Their child-abuser seemed to be turning into a veritable Father Theresa. Liz Green's reports had been the same. According to her, Moon had been a favourite at the TV studios, he'd sorted out the love-life of the editor at one of the magazines he wrote for and steered the editor of another to a more suitable line of work. He'd even managed to avoid serious jealousy at the astrological society, which, given that it was apparently composed in the main of assorted old queens, must have been a major achievement. Rafferty had to admit that this case was giving his prejudices a severe hammering. Llewellyn would be pleased.

  After further reminiscences, Hawkeye headed for the canteen to renew other old friendships. Rafferty went up to his office on the much less enjoyable exercise of continuing the murder investigation. He found L
lewellyn already there, reading through the latest reports. “Hadleigh not turned up yet?”

  Llewellyn shook his head, and Rafferty sighed. Until they found him he felt stymied. A major suspect in the investigation and the combined strength of The Met and Essex Forces couldn't lay their hands on him. “I want you to ring Moon and Astell's partnership solicitor,” he told Llewellyn. “Ask him about the Intestacy rules. We might as well investigate other avenues while we're waiting for the artistic Terry Hadleigh to turn up.”

  Their investigations had revealed that, not only had none of the town's solicitors drawn up a Will for Moon, but neither had any of the solicitors working within a ten mile radius of Soho. Rafferty was beginning to wonder whether Moon might not have written his own Will. Although he had little knowledge of the law on such matters, he knew enough to realise that writing your own Will was a chancy business. Put one word out of place, or neglect to put another word in, and your estate could be distributed in a way you had never intended. Moon had been foolhardy if he had written his own Will, especially as, if it had ever existed, it now seemed to have disappeared. But if it had existed, Moon would surely have needed two witnesses to sign it and Rafferty made a mental note to ask amongst Moon's friends and acquaintances to see if any of them had witnessed such a document.

  Llewellyn hung up the phone. And two minutes later, Rafferty learned that he had been wrong about the need for witnesses. It seemed that if Moon had written his Will in his own hand – a Holograph Will as the solicitor had termed it – it would still be legally valid with just Moon's signature. Rafferty consoled himself for this latest disappointment with the thought that, as they were having no more luck in finding the Will than they were in finding Terry Hadleigh, it hardly mattered. “Let's have the rest,” he said.

  “There are strictly applied rules as to who can inherit and in which order when there is no Will. These are a bit complicated, but roughly, where there's no spouse, the estate passes to the surviving relatives in the following order; descendants such as children and grandchildren – legitimate and illegitimate, then parents, brothers, sisters and their descendants, then grandparents, uncles, aunts and their descendants; then great-uncles and great-aunts and their descendants, namely second cousins, second cousins once removed...”

  “All right, all right, I think I've got the gist of it,” Rafferty broke in. He half suspected that, left to his own devices, Llewellyn would carry on all the way back through Adam and Eve and their descendants. “Moon had no relatives closer than second cousins. Presumably they get the lot?”

  “They would have done, yes.”

  “Would have done?”

  “They may well still get it. Probably will. However, the Inheritance Act of 1975 widened the scope of those who can make a claim on an estate. That's what I meant when I said it was complicated. It would be up to the Courts.”

  Rafferty smothered a sigh as Llewellyn continued, his voice now taking on the dry, precise tones of Moon's solicitor. “"Any person – and this includes friends or relations – who immediately before the death of the deceased – was being maintained either wholly or partly by the deceased may apply to the Court. The Court can then make an order for a lump sum or periodical payments. And can also make a wide variety of other orders, for example for the transfer of the deceased's house to the applicant."”

  Rafferty stared at him as the implication of Llewellyn's words sunk in. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying that if there was no Will, or if no Will is found Moon's boyfriend, Christian Farley, could apply for a lump sum under The Inheritance Act?”

  Llewellyn nodded.

  “But what are his chances of getting anything?”

  Llewellyn shrugged. “The solicitor wasn't prepared to commit himself on that.”

  “Typical,” Rafferty muttered.

  “But the key word apparently, is whether the applicant was maintained by the deceased. And Farley was. Of course, the Court might still turn him down, but it would be worth his while to try. He didn't work, he had no income other than what Moon provided. I spoke to the local DSS earlier and he had never even applied for unemployment benefit or social security.”

  “Why should he put himself to the bother of filling in all their wretched forms when he was living the life of Reilly at Moon's expense?” was Rafferty's terse comment. “If Moon left him nothing, it certainly makes it more likely that he should have destroyed any home-made Will. At least with the Courts, he had some hope of getting something. They'd been together for five years and he hadn't worked for a good chunk of that time.” Rafferty tugged thoughtfully at his chin. “But it all seems a bit too iffy for murder. Farley would surely want a more rock-solid guarantee that he'd get his hands on the loot before he killed Moon, jealousy or no jealousy. Friend Farley strikes me as having a definite eye for the main chance.”

  He began to rummage through the forgotten reports on his desk, stiffening as he found one that had something positive to say. “Listen to this.” he said. “Witness rang in – anonymously, of course – aren't they always? to say they'd seen someone with a remarkable similarity to Farley on several occasions hanging around outside Moon's consulting rooms on the last couple of Thursday evenings before they flew to the States. Wonder if our anonymous informant is the blond bombshell in The Troubadour? Seems the sort of thing he'd try. Worth looking into, anyway,” he concluded. “I shall have another little word with the emotional Mr Farley.” He glanced despairingly down at the pile of reports yet to be gone through. “But not just yet. I'd better plough through these first. You know what the Super's like. If a man's not on top of the paperwork, he thinks he's not on top of the case. And if I don't get this lot digested, he's bound to ask about them. Besides,” he grinned weakly. “One of the station crawlers is bound to let him in on the PIMP joke soon. With an imminent eruption from Bradley on the cards, it's not a good idea to supply him with more fuel.” The phone rang, and muttering, “Hope this isn't Vesuvius,” he reached for the receiver. “Inspector Rafferty.”

  “Inspector, my name's Rachel Hetherington.” Rafferty breathed a grateful sigh at the reprieve. “I work for Life and Leisure Insurance Company.” Rafferty was just about to say that, as a single man, he hardly had need of life insurance, when she continued. “I've read about the murder of Jasper Moon and I wondered if you might be interested to learn that we hold an insurance policy on his life. It's for a very large sum.”

  Rafferty's heart skipped a beat. “That's very interesting, Ms Hetherington. Who's the beneficiary?”

  “A chap called Christian Farley. Lives at the same address as the policyholder. Do you know him?”

  “Oh yes. I know Mr Farley.” Rafferty thought quickly. “Could you let us have a copy of that Policy?”

  “Certainly. I'll drop it around to the station. I only work round the corner.”

  “That's very good of you. Many thanks.”

  He hung up. “Did you get all that?” Llewellyn nodded. “She's going to drop a copy of this Policy into the station for us.”

  “Is that the Policy?” Llewellyn asked half an hour later.

  Rafferty nodded. “Yes. And it's here in big dark letters that Hadleigh wasn't the only one with a motive for killing Moon. Christian Farley had several hundred thousand of them, all in Sterling. So, with what we've learned about Moon's insurance policy, Farley's jealousy and his possible spying activities, he's suddenly become even more interesting. I wonder if he was aware that he stood to gain a large sum in the event of Moon's death?” He paused. “Is Farley's friend still singing the same song?”

  “Yes, for what it's worth, he still insists Farley was with him all evening. But WPC Green said he seemed high on something when she spoke to him again this morning. She had a much more revealing conversation than before. Said he seemed to have a grudge against the police. She got the impression he'd say anything to the Force, as long as it wasn't the truth. Not a terribly reliable witness.”

  “So, if Farley's little friend tells
lies to the police on principle, it's possible that he'd tell lies about Farley's whereabouts on the evening of the murder. Motive and a weak alibi. Better and better.” Rafferty digested this, then asked, “What about Mrs Ginnie Campbell? Did Lizzie Green turn up anything more on her?” Liz Green had already spoken to the boyfriend, and he had confirmed what Ginnie Campbell had said.

  Llewellyn nodded. “When WPC Green went back this morning and spoke to his neighbours, they said she could easily have slipped out the back way without the boyfriend or themselves being any the wiser. The boyfriend is a drinker – drinks himself insensible regularly, apparently. They also told her that Mrs Campbell's car must have been parked elsewhere, as it wasn't outside the house.”

  “So Ginnie Campbell's another one who could have slipped out without too much trouble. Has WPC Green typed up her latest reports?”

  Llewellyn nodded. “She was finishing when I spoke to her.”

  “Get her to bring them into me, will you? I want to read them before I speak to Ginnie Campbell and Farley again.” He never minded reading the pretty WPC's reports. They were always pleasantly brief.

  Told that they had a witness who had seen him hanging about outside Moon's offices on Thursday evenings just before their US trip, Christian Farley reacted with a self-pitying rage.

  “Don't you understand I had to find out if anything was going on?” he demanded. “Jasper, even before he became rich and famous, could have had anyone. Do you think I didn't realise that? Ever since we've been together I've felt insecure, scared of losing him. And, as I became older and my looks faded, I became more and more frightened. How could I help it? I was jealous of all those beautiful people he mixes with. How could I expect to compete?”

  Farley flung himself down on the black leather settee. “He'd started coming home late every Thursday evening. He told me he was working on his latest book, wanted to get it well along before the trip to the States, but he could do that just as easily on the computer here. Of course, he wasn't working on his book at all, as I discovered.” Farley's green eyes glittered with a peculiar malevolence. “He had that little tart, Terry Hadleigh up there with him. I saw them. Jasper was... Jasper was naked. I saw him through the curtains.” Farley's pink and white complexion took on a mottled hue, as if several strong emotions were battling within him. Self-pity won. “To think that after all this time, and all the beautiful people, it should be that cut-price whore who took Jasper away from me.”