Death Line Page 8

  Astell chose to ignore his assurances. “Very well. Speak to the agent and the accountant if you must.” He named a local firm of accountants. The agent had an office in London. “Check the books too. You'll find everything in order. As I told you, I never even took the full share of profit to which our agreement entitled me. I certainly never helped myself to anything more.” He inclined his head. “I'll say good day to you, gentlemen.”

  Rafferty braced himself for the slamming door, but it closed quietly behind him. As they walked to the car, he commented ruefully, “And I thought Librans were meant to be natural diplomats? At least according to ma.” He sighed. “Another talent that's passed me by.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Back at the station, Rafferty threw off his coat and shouted for tea, commenting, “Though, diplomat or not, you must admit that Astell rather got on his high horse when I asked him for those names,” With a ragged grin, he added, “For a moment there, I sensed Bradley's PIMPmobile on my heels. Still, if Astell goes scurrying off to Bradley to complain, you'll be able to confirm that I was politeness itself. I even threw in plenty of "sirs". He had no call to get quite so sniffy.”

  “Even an honest man is prone to anger when his honesty's questioned.”

  Rafferty nodded absently. Probably Llewellyn was right and they'd find that Astell had been the soul of scrupulousness. But, he reflected, if he'd had his hands in the till up to his armpits, he was hardly likely to admit to it. And even if Moon's other income didn't go into the partnership account, there would still be healthy enough amounts coming in to arouse temptation. Presumably, the clients made their cheques out to the business name rather than to either individual partner. It would have been easy enough for a man like Astell to help himself to parts of Moon's income and cover his tracks from any but the most rigorous scrutiny. But why would he? Rafferty reasoned. If what Astell had told them was true, he was entitled to a fifty per cent share of the profits anyway, yet didn't take it. Of course, Mrs Astell was reputed to be wealthy, so he could presumably afford it.

  Still, Rafferty reminded himself, as he again acted as Devil's Advocate, that wasn't quite the same thing as being wealthy yourself. It was possible Astell was too stiff-necked to be happy living on his wife's money and had only pretended to take less than his share to deflect Moon's suspicion. If this was what happened and Moon had caught him out, it could be a motive for murder. But, Rafferty frowned, as he realised the flaw in his theory, not for this murder. Even if Astell was helping himself to more of the profits than he was legally entitled to, he still couldn't picture him killing Moon so impetuously. It wasn't his style. Besides, he had been tied up most of that evening. Mrs Moreno hadn't finally left till shortly before 9.00 p m, and then he had joined his wife. Though, he reminded himself, she probably extended her’ little womn’ syndrome to include lying for hubby. Anyway, he decided, he could at least check up on the money angle. Flipping open the local phone book, he found the number of the accountants, picked up the handset and began to dial. He got the engaged tone, pressed the rest and tried again; and again. “Come on, come on,” he growled. “Get off the bloody phone.”

  “Why don't you use the redial button?” Llewellyn asked mildly, as he pressed it. “Then you can put the phone down.”

  Rafferty replaced the receiver. “Why didn't I think of that?” he asked disingenuously. He'd often wondered what that particular button was for. He'd pressed it once or twice, out of curiosity, but as nothing much seemed to happen he hadn't bothered again. Of course, the explanatory booklet had long since vanished – not that he'd got very far with it before his brain had given up, in any case. But as this was the age of technological tyranny, he would never be fool enough to admit his ignorance.

  For some reason, Llewellyn had decided to connive in this concealment, passing on appropriate tips discreetly. Rafferty had never been sure whether compassion or condescension prompted him, but even though he half-resented the help, he didn't refuse it. Modern policing demanded a wide range of skills, and if Bradley ever realised just how limited was his technological grasp, he'd take great pleasure in writing it large in his record.

  “Actually.” Llewellyn cleared his throat and Rafferty glanced up. “Astell's wife interested me.”

  “Wouldn't have thought she was your type,” Rafferty joked. “Promise I won't tell Maureen.”

  Llewellyn took a long-suffering breath. “I meant that it struck me as odd that Astell should have popped in twice to check on her. Didn't you notice her prompt him? He looked puzzled for a second, before he agreed. Why was she so keen to mention the visits at all?”

  “Now you mention it, twice does seem a bit excessive. Still, people are always anxious to cover themselves in such circumstances. I don't suppose it means anything. Even if she was totally alone from just after 8.00 p m to 8.50 p m, I can't see her creeping out on such a night to kill Moon. She might have disliked the man, but that's hardly strong enough reason for murdering him. Besides, by the look of her, I'd have thought beating Moon around the head with his own crystal ball hard enough to kill him would be physically beyond her.”

  Rafferty guessed what was about to come out of Llewellyn's open mouth and forestalled him. “I know, I know. An open mind is a policeman's friend and conclusion jumping his enemy. I haven't forgotten.” Not likely to get the chance, Rafferty added to himself, with you around. And even if I am guilty of jumping to conclusions, he mused, I still can't see her doing it.

  After staring at the still silent phone with a frown, he said, “I want you to get onto Moon's London agent. Check that Astell was telling the truth when he said he had nothing to do with Moon's profitable side-lines. Not that it's likely to make much difference one way or the other,” he muttered half to himself. “It doesn't look as if he would have had the opportunity to kill him. But we'd better get it checked out.”

  While Llewellyn busied himself with that, Rafferty glanced through the growing pile of reports, abandoning them with relief when Llewellyn put the phone down and told him that Moon's agent had confirmed that Astell had told them the truth.

  Rafferty nodded. He had expected as much.

  Half an hour later, the accountant still hadn't got back to him. So much for the benefits of modern technology, Rafferty thought. At least when you dialled a number yourself, you had the satisfaction of slamming the receiver down when it was continually engaged. “I reckon the bloody phone's redirected my call to a public phone box in the Outer Hebrides,” he complained to Llewellyn.

  Llewellyn smiled his superior smile. “It's always possible you dialled the wrong number,” he pointed out. “It's easily done.”

  Rafferty scowled. “Might have known it would be my fault. Why don't you give them a ring, Mr Know-all?”

  Of course, Llewellyn got through on the first attempt, obtained the information that Mr Spenny, the partnership accountant was away on a late holiday and wouldn't be back till the following week and made an appointment for Rafferty to see him as soon as he came back.

  With great restraint, Rafferty merely nodded an acknowledgement when Llewellyn told him this. Sitting forward in his chair, he said, “Let's see what we have to consider so far. Moon's office was broken into on the night of his murder. Could be a coincidence, could be someone trying to throw us off the scent. Of course, £1000 is a large enough sum to kill for, especially when you consider how many people nowadays get murdered for the sake of a few pence. But whatever happened, and aside from the oddities I mentioned earlier, there are four other things we must consider about that break-in.” He began to mark them off on his fingers. “One, if it happened before the murder, why did the intruder burgle an obviously occupied office? It could have been a drug addict, as I told Farley, but I doubt it. An addict would find easier pickings by mugging old ladies. Two, if Moon surprised him, why was the only injury to the back of his skull?”

  “The intruder could have had a gun and forced Moon to turn around so he could hit him.”

  “So
why not hit him with the gun? Why bother to look around for another weapon?” Llewellyn's first objection satisfactorily disposed of, Rafferty went back to his counting. “Three, if the burglar didn't attack him, if he left Moon still alive, why didn't Moon report the break-in? And four, if the break-in happened after the murder, why on earth would any self-respecting burglar break in at all and risk getting involved in what was obviously a violent death? Moon was slumped directly in front of the window.”

  “Don't forget, the blinds were drawn. Any burglar might only have seen the body when he had actually climbed in.”

  “Okay, that's a fair point. But once he had, it strikes me he'd have climbed right out again, not gone rummaging through Moon's pockets and the desk for the key to the cashbox. If our burglar was that cool and hard-headed, he'd have gone for a more profitable line of work – armed bank robbery, for instance, rather than burgling an office on the off-chance of finding cash. No, I reckon we've got two separate people involved here. Two very different types.”

  Rafferty twirled in his chair and gazed out at the rain. It was gusting sideways, as wind-whipped as the scurrying, forwards-leaning pedestrians. Depressed, he twirled back. “I wondered if Moon might have invited a pick-up back for the evening. They could have had a lovers' tiff. It would explain the murder and the trashing of the office. A possible pick-up could have been hoping to throw us off the scent.”

  “But why should he invite a boyfriend back to the office at all? He had a perfectly comfortable home. Farley was away, so he would have the flat to himself. Besides, even though Lilley said he had found no file for this Henderson, it doesn't mean he wasn't a new client. Moon may have made an exception. And don't forget that Mrs Hadleigh said that Moon had called Henderson a client.”

  “Moon wouldn't be likely to flaunt any sexual dalliances in front of his cleaner. What would be the point? And even if Farley was spending a few nights away, Moon couldn't be certain he wouldn't return unexpectedly. Besides,” Rafferty, keen to test their new understanding, suggested with a grin, “perhaps Moon liked his spare rumpy-pumpy under the stars? And with its star-spangled ceiling, that office of his would be perfect.” The summer heat wave endured with such reluctant stoicism by Rafferty who liked his weather comfortable, was now becoming quite a fond memory, and he commented, “You must admit, it's a bit parky for outside sexual shenanigans now.”

  Llewellyn's light nod accepted both the argument and its presentation, and Rafferty was satisfied that Llewellyn was beginning to accept his black-tinged ways with humour. He didn't for a moment assume they had broken the back of their differing approaches, but at least they had made a start, and now, he tapped the photo-fit picture that Mrs Hadleigh had worked on with their expert. “Mind you, this Henderson bloke doesn't exactly look the ideal candidate for a bit of on the side naughties. A man as successful as Moon couldn't have been short of offers in that direction, so why settle for a down-at-heel near wrinkly?”

  “I believe chronologically-challenged is the term currently in vogue, sir,” Llewellyn murmured.

  Rafferty, who'd had enough of having his prejudices criticised for one day, responded sharply. “Don't start quoting the collected thoughts of the politically correct brigade at me, boyo. Your ancient Greeks are enough. Unlike the PC brigade, at least they understood that preaching at people is more likely to get their backs up than change their attitudes.”

  “A little joke, sir, that's all,” said Llewellyn, his expression bland.

  “Mm.” Rafferty, half-suspecting that Llewellyn was now teasing him, deemed it wiser to say nothing more on the subject. “Let's get this picture circulated. I want Henderson's likeness on the streets by this evening. I also want Moon's photographs circulated at the same time. It might throw something up. Send Hanks in on your way out. I want him to go and pay a visit to the partners' bank. If we can get the numbers of those stolen notes, we might be able to trace them. Come back when you've set things in motion, as I want us to go and see this Ginnie Campbell next and find out why she didn't come into work this morning. We'll take a chance that she's at home.”

  There was no answer at Ginnie Campbell's door. As they turned to walk back up the path, the door of the next terraced house opened and a neighbour stepped out in front of them.

  “If you're looking for that Campbell woman, she's out.” Ginnie Campbell's neighbour was built on battle-tank lines and now she planted her solid, fluffy pink slippered feet more firmly on the shared path, blocking it as effectively as any armoured vehicle, and, managing to look marginally more threatening as she crossed meaty arms over her flowered pinny. Eyes as hard and dense as plum stones fixed avidly on them as she added, “I can give her a message, if you like.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but we'll come back.” Without success, Rafferty attempted to edge past her on the narrow path, but as she didn't give an inch, he was forced to retreat.

  “If you're looking for money, you'll be wasting your time,” she confided. “She's got tally-men and debt collectors on her doorstep morning and night, but few of them manage to catch her.” Her eyes darted from one to the other, and she speculated artfully, “You'll be the bailiffs, I suppose? They must be due about now.”

  Rafferty took a quiet satisfaction in disappointing her. Still, with £1000 missing from Moon's office, it was certainly interesting to discover that Virginia Campbell's circumstances were so straitened. “We do need to see Mrs Campbell urgently,” he said. “Have you any idea when she'll be back, Mrs...?”

  “Naseby. Mrs Naseby's my name. No, can't say I have.” She crossed her arms more firmly over her ample chest, dewlaps of mottled flesh on her upper arms wobbling, seemingly impervious to the chill wind that was steadily turning Llewellyn's ears bright red, and settled to gossip. “Comes and goes at all hours. Heard her drive back from God knows where before 8 o'clock this morning. Roared up in that car of hers with enough noise to wake the dead.” She sniffed. “Might be able to pay her rent if she stayed home occasionally.”

  “How do you know she's behind with her rent?” Rafferty asked.

  “I've got a friend who works in the landlord's offices, that's how. Three months' she owes them.” As a car pulled up at the kerb, her lips drew back in a spiteful smile and she told them, “You're in luck. That's her now. Though I wouldn't count on getting any money.”

  The car was a sports model and although its registration plate revealed that it was only a year old, it had certainly been in the wars, as several large dents testified. Rafferty wondered how Ginnie Campbell could afford to pay for fancy cars when she couldn't afford the rent? But perhaps she couldn't, he mused, as the three of them watched her climb out of the car. Perhaps the car company featured among the debt collectors trying to catch up with her? No doubt Mrs Naseby would know.

  Virginia Campbell was a statuesque redhead of about forty summers. Her carriage was proud and, as she approached, Mrs Naseby's lips thinned. The other woman's chin raised in response, her shoulders went back and her walk became more swayingly provocative. Dressed in a short, clinging and jewel-bright vermilion skirt, its satin sheen a defiant battle cry, Rafferty guessed, as the ample flesh of the crimplene chain-store-couturiered Mrs Naseby quivered with outrage, that she would have plenty of practise at out-facing the neighbours.

  Sweeping them with a contemptuous glance, Ginnie Campbell asked, “What's this? A welcoming committee? Come to ask me to join the neighbourhood watch?”

  Unthinkingly, Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn. Predictably, Mrs Naseby pounced.

  “So, you've got the police on your tail, as well now, have you?” she demanded with gratified spite. After looking Ginnie Campbell and her short skirt up and down, she added, tartly, “Can't say I'm surprised.”

  Ginnie Campbell poked the other woman sharply in her ample bosom with a vermilion painted forefinger, and rounded fiercely on her. “Just watch your tongue, you rancid old bat or I'll put the evil eye on you.” She held up her left hand and made a darting motion towa
rds the neighbour's face.

  Mrs Naseby went pale, her aggressive manner crumbled. She backed towards her front door, chased by Ginnie Campbell's derisive laughter, and slammed the door to behind her.

  Rafferty was astonished to discover that the intimidating human tank should be as prone to superstitious fears as himself. As Ginnie Campbell's jeering laughter was abruptly cut off he reintroduced himself.

  He'd barely finished when she snapped at him, “Thanks a lot. Did you have to let her know you're from the police? She'll have the entire street convinced I'm on the game now.” Turning away, she stalked up the path to her door and disappeared. Exchanging bemused glances, Rafferty and Llewellyn followed her. She had left the door ajar and, after giving a cursory knock, they walked up the hall.

  She was in the living room. As they entered, she removed her high heels and flung them in the far corner before she slumped in an armchair and said, “Sit down, for God's sake. What do you want, anyway?”

  After sitting on a shocking pink settee that was littered with discarded clothing, Rafferty told her the reason for their visit. Although her eyes widened and she stared at him open-mouthed, Rafferty got the impression that she had already known of Moon's death. There was no reason why she shouldn't, of course. His body had been discovered several hours ago; it was probable that, by now, news of his murder had spread like post-Christmas pine needles. But he wondered why – if she had already known about it – she should choose to pretend otherwise?

  Gesturing for Llewellyn to take over the questioning, Rafferty studied her. Under the brave paint, her face had careworn lines that made her look every month of her forty years, and, as she bent her head, Rafferty noticed that the roots of her flame-red hair were liberally sprinkled with grey. He got the impression that her aggressive dress and manner camouflaged a woman at the end of her tether. It wasn't altogether surprisingly, of course. Not only was she in debt. She was also a divorcee, with dyed red hair, a voluptuous figure and a too proud manner; an ill-advised combination in a poor neighbourhood, where the men would eye her with hopeful lust and the women with fear and dislike.