Death Line Read online

  Now, he interrupted Llewellyn's slow, but precise interviewing technique. “You told Sergeant Llewellyn that you had today and yesterday off work. Could you tell us where you spent the time? I gather you didn't attend Mr and Mrs Astell's little anniversary evening?”

  The question seemed to amuse her. “God no. I spent all day yesterday out with my boyfriend. We went to the races at Newmarket. Got back to his place in St Mark's Road about 6.00 p m, and stayed in all evening. I came straight back this morning. About eight.”

  Rafferty nodded. Ginnie Campbell's home, like St Mark's Road, was in the southern part of Elmhurst, certainly well away from Moon's High Street premises. “Not your cup of tea, I take it? This memorial do of the Astells'?”

  “I wasn't invited, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. I believe in saving my admiration for live men, not dead ones. Jasper didn't get an invite either, but it's not as if he socialised with the Astells, anyway. Sarah Astell didn't approve of him any more than she does me, so that's hardly surprising.”

  Llewellyn broke in. “Still, it seems odd that Mrs Moreno, an employee, should receive an invitation, when Mr Astell's business partner did not.”

  “There's nothing odd about it,” she told him. “Sarah Astell invited her because "Highly-thought of" made it her business to fawn and flutter round her for some reason of her own.”

  Llewellyn nodded. “I see. It didn't cause an atmosphere at work because Mrs Moreno was the only one invited?”

  “I told you. I didn't want to go, anyway, and Jasper understood that Edwin could hardly invite him to his wife's ancestor-worshipping evening when his wife couldn't stand him.”

  Rafferty was surprised that Mrs Astell's dislike of Moon should apparently be common knowledge. Though he wasn't particularly surprised that Astell should lie about it. His business partner had just been murdered. It was understandable that he should be at least as protective of his wife as he was of his clients. It would hardly be politic for the man to admit that his wife and his partner weren't exactly bosom buddies. Though, by now, Rafferty guessed he was already regretting his instinctive denial. “Were you aware that Mr Moon had a client with him yesterday evening?” he continued.

  She shook her head and he pulled out one of the photo-fit pictures and showed it to her. 'A Mr Henderson. Do you know him?'

  She glanced at the picture and shook her head again. “I've neither seen nor heard of him before. Though I'm surprised Jasper should see a client on Thursday evenings. He liked to keep them free. His usual practise was to go out for an early meal before he got down to his latest book.”

  “A meal?” Rafferty queried. He should have thought of that himself. “Do you know what restaurant he went to?” If they found out what he'd eaten and at what time, it might help to narrow the time of death.

  “He usually went to that expensive French place in the High Street; the one a couple of doors away from our offices. Jasper fancied himself as something of a gourmet. Really he was more of a gourmand. Poor Jazz.” For the first time, she showed genuine regret. “All his appetites were large, but then he loved life. The place'll be like a morgue without him.”

  Plainly, Ginnie Campbell knew nothing about Henderson, and Rafferty put the matter from his mind. For now, he was more curious to learn her opinion of Jasper Moon and who might have killed him. “I gather Mr Moon was homosexual,” he began.

  “Jasper homosexual?” She laughed as if she found his diffident statement amusing. Once again, like a suddenly switched-off sound system, the laughter was abruptly cut off, disconcerting him. “He was as queer as a piebald canary, Inspector. Not that I hold that against him,” she quickly added. “Why? Do you think that might have something to do with his death? Do you think the boyfriend killed him?”

  “Do you?” he countered.

  She shrugged. “How should I know? But Chris Farley was as jealous as hell, that much I do know. I often heard Jasper on the phone, placating him, when I passed his door.”

  “Did he have any reason for this jealousy?”

  “Again – how should I know? Chris Farley might have been jealous, might have had reason for jealousy for all I know, but I somehow can't see him having the guts to kill. Especially as he'd have lost the comfortable nest Jasper provided him with.”

  That had been Rafferty's opinion. “Tell me, Mrs Campbell-”

  “Call me Ginnie. Everyone does. Mrs Campbell always makes me feel like a history teacher or something.”

  “"Madam Ginnie,"” Rafferty quoted from one of the posters pinned up in Moon's office ante-room. “"Palmist to the Stars".”

  She smiled delightedly. “You saw it? I'm surprised Edwin hasn't noticed it and made me take it down again. He told me it was too close to Jasper's publicity posters and wasn't even accurate, though that's not strictly true.” She gave another short laugh. “It's two stars to be exact. And of the falling variety. Still,” she smiled, but beneath the smile her eyes were resentful. “They can't get me under the Trades Descriptions Act. No-one said my claimed stars had to be high in the sky.”

  Rafferty guessed she minded very much that her skills were side-lined to the postal part of the business. Could it have any bearing on Moon's murder, Rafferty wondered, that both Mrs Moreno and Mrs Campbell harboured resentments against the partnership? Moon had been the most important partner and the natural target for any ill feeling. It could be significant, he decided. “I'd like the name and address of your boyfriend, if I may.”

  “Why?” She sat up straight, all amusement gone now, and demanded, “Do you think I killed Jazzy?” She sounded angry, Rafferty noted. Angry and more than a little scared. Between the two emotions, she seemed edgy, and her be ringed fingers clenched tightly in her lap.

  “Did you have any reason to kill him?” he countered again.

  She sat back. “Hell no. Oh, he could be infuriatingly pernickety sometimes. But, on the whole, he was an old love, generous to a fault. Why...” She broke off and then began again. “Why I know he used to go to old people's homes, do free readings and liven them up no end. Jasper was always a good turn. It was all done very privately. He always said that what he did was more of a vocation than a job. That's probably why he was so good at it. He had a great gift and he didn't believe it should be used purely for profit. He was kind, generous, superstitious, sentimental...”

  “Sentimental? Why do you say that?”

  She smiled. “He adored mementoes of people and places. I remember he lost his keys a little while ago – he was always careless with them. He didn't mind so much about the keys, but he did mind about losing the key-ring. Some old friend had given it to him years ago and he was terribly upset about it. And he carried around photos of friends and family, photos of star clients autographed with love and kisses. He kept them all in a wallet; first cousins, second cousins twice removed, great aunts. He dropped the wallet one day and they all fell out. He even had a photo of Sarah Astell as a baby – ugly little brat she was, too.”

  “How do you know it was of her?” Llewellyn questioned.

  “I asked him, of course. He seemed embarrassed to be caught with it, especially when we all knew how she snubbed him. I think he was hurt that she should dislike him. Jas could never bear anyone to dislike him, always tried to bring them round. And he loved kids, was always ready to act as a God-parent if anyone asked him. I suppose, with no children of his own, he tried to make up for what he had missed with other people's. Of course Sarah Astell refused to let him near the little girl. Probably thought she'd catch Aids, or something. Sad really.”

  Rafferty found himself nodding. He was beginning to feel sorry for Moon, who, in spite of his wealth and fame, was denied the family life others took for granted. With no siblings, he hadn't even had nephews or nieces with whom he could have played the benevolent uncle. The Astells' little girl was the nearest he got to the real thing, yet he hadn't been allowed near her.

  Madam Ginnie pulled a face. “He loved to buy presents for people. I knew he would h
ave loved the opportunity to spoil the Astells' little girl, but he knew her mother would probably burn them, so he confined himself to buying for Edwin and his wife. I noticed he had a parcel for Sarah Astell on his desk. It looked like a video film as it was about the right size and shape. Imagine, having it bought and wrapped several days before her birthday. Wish I could be that organised.”

  Moon must have given his gift to Mercedes or Astell to deliver, Rafferty surmised, and reminded himself to ask them about it. It was unlikely to be significant, but anything to do with the victim had to be investigated. Although surprised to discover that Moon went in for charitable work, Rafferty wasn't impressed by her championing of him. It seemed like a clumsy attempt to deflect any suspicions they might have of her. After all, a large sum of money was missing and Madam Ginnie was apparently in straitened circumstances. She had also, so far, avoided giving him the name and address of her "friend". The fact that all the staff had keys meant that any one of them could have waited till they saw Mrs Hadleigh and Henderso, leave and then slipped in and killed Moon. And that included his boyfriend. He had had access to Moon's office keys for five years. He could have had them copied on any occasion during that time, or even helped himself to the originals, letting Moon assume he had lost them. But, as Ginnie Campbell had said, Farley was the loser by Moon's death. And Rafferty did like a nice juicy motive before he seriously suspected someone. Even if only to save himself from Llewellyn's nagging reproaches.

  “You were going to give us your boyfriend's details,” Llewellyn reminded her. With a casual confidence, she supplied them. “And he'll vouch for the fact that you were with him all of Thursday evening?”

  “Of course.”

  Rafferty was thoughtful as they left, having instructed her to come into the station to have her prints taken. The method of murder was just the sort of impulsive behaviour an irrational woman like Ginnie Campbell would go in for. He had already seen evidence that she had a temper to match her hair; had she begged Jasper for a loan and been refused? It was possible she had seen red and struck him with the ball before helping herself to the contents of the cashbox. And, although she hardly seemed the epitome of the conscientious employee, it was possible she had unthinkingly locked the box up afterwards. It would be interesting to see if her alibi checked out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rafferty consulted his watch as they left Ginnie Campbell's. Unwilling for Llewellyn to discover another of his professional failings – his weak stomach, he managed to inject a brisk, business-like note into his voice as he suggested they get along to the post-mortem. In the car, he said to Llewellyn before starting the engine, “Get onto the station, Dafyd, and get them to check out this French restaurant. See what time Moon came in last night and what time he left, what he ate and if he ate alone.”

  Llewellyn relayed the request. The answers came through just as they pulled into the mortuary car park. Moon had apparently arrived at the restaurant at 6.15 p m. Although they didn't actually open for business till 7.00 p m, Moon was a good customer and they always made an exception for him. He had dined alone and had left at 6.50 p m.

  “Thirty-five minutes.” Rafferty grimaced. “Usually takes me that long just to get someone to take my order when I go to restaurants,” he complained. “Go on. What did he have?”

  “He always only had the one course on Thursday evenings, I gather. This week it was prawns. And as he selected each week's meal the previous week, it was usually practically ready for him when he arrived. Of course, he had work waiting for him and didn't want to waste time. And presumably, he was expecting this Henderson chap.”

  “Let's hope it helps Sam narrow down the time of death.” He got out of the car and slammed the door. “Come on, we're late.”

  Sam Dally had already started the autopsy by the time they reached the mortuary. They entered with as little noise as possible.

  “Jasper Moon, male, Caucasian, fifty-eight years of age,” Sam was intoning briskly to the tape. He raised his eyes from the cadaver, and, clicking off the microphone, told Rafferty, “I got tired of waiting, lad, so I started without you. You'll be pleased to know you've got something in common other than your appalling taste in socks – you're both AB blood group. Maybe he supplied some of his rare claret when you put your fist through that window? Shame you won't get the chance to reciprocate.”

  Rafferty gave Sam a taut smile. “Isn't it, though?” The incident to which Sam referred had been during his marriage to Angie. And it hadn't been accidental – stupid, yes, as his Ma had told him, but accidental, no. It was the sort of thing you did when your marriage was lousy. His Ma would have been deeply upset at the idea of divorce, which was why he had put all thought of it out of his mind for so long, but he had been seriously contemplating it again when Angie's illness had been diagnosed, and death, rather than divorce had put an end to their mutual unhappiness.

  The assorted odours of the room hit him then and he clenched his nostrils hard. The sights during the PM were bad enough, he always thought, but the smells were worse; urine and faeces overlaid with the scent of raw flesh slightly gone over. But at least they succeeded in removing all thought of the dead Angie from his mind. He told Sam the time of Moon's last meal. Sam nodded, and made an incision from neck to pubis, detouring around the tough tissue surrounding the navel. Now, the odours became overpowering. Rafferty gazed at the ceiling, clenched his nose even harder, and began siphoning air through his teeth as he sensed Sam begin to remove the organs.

  Unsurprised, he noted again that Llewellyn was as impervious to the stink of death as he had been to the high scents of the recent heat-wave. Impassive, he stood beside Rafferty, barely blinking as the photographer's flash recorded each part of the procedure, taking the objective interest in the autopsy that Rafferty wished he could manage. And even though Rafferty aimed enough curses at his head to fill a Gaelic swear-box, they had no discernible effect.

  “ You were right about the prawns,” Sam commented, as he removed the contents of the stomach. “It's a wonder he didn't choke to death, as he must have fair gobbled them down. Mind, ye canna beat a good prawn. Doesn't look like the digestive process had got very far. Of course,” he added complacently, “it varies widely, so that's not as much help as you might think.”

  As Sam bent back to his work, Rafferty, still fighting a rear-guard action with the contents of his own stomach – one of the canteen's supposed specialities, a particularly rebellious Irish Stew, which resented internment – attempted to retain both dignity and dinner by concentrating his attention on telling Sam about Mercedes Moreno's warning to Moon. Predictably, Sam was inclined to scoff.

  “It wasn't the hand of fate that smashed that ball down on his skull,” he retorted. “Silly woman was probably only trying to make herself look important. Didn't you say she was from South America? Those Latin types always like to dramatize themselves.”

  A pragmatic Scot, Sam Dally rarely got excited about anything. As far as he was concerned, if you were a native of any country that boasted more regular sunshine than his own Highlands, you were prone to hysteria. He put it down to too much hot sun in impressionable youth and a continuing over-indulgence in spicy food, and neither reasoning nor argument could persuade him from his prejudices. He should try working with Llewellyn, thought Rafferty. That should shift 'em. Still, in Mercedes' case, Rafferty thought Sam's prejudices might be valid.

  “Attacked from behind,” Sam went on. “Most likely with the crystal ball, as it fitted the depression nicely. Unlike you, Rafferty, the victim had an unusually thin skull. If he hadn't and he'd been found earlier, he might have survived.”

  “So it could have been a woman who attacked him?” Sam nodded. “Any update on the time of death?” he added, hoping to squeeze some further information out of the cautious Scot.

  Sam pursed his lips, frowned, and then committed himself. “As I mentioned, the digestion process hadn't got very far, not that that's a very reliable indicator, but I'd say he'd
eaten roughly two hours before death, which tallies with what you told me about the most likely time of his last meal. Rigor was virtually complete, temperature loss as expected, so I'd say he died between 7.30 p m and 9.30 p m, with the most likely time somewhere between the two.”

  Rafferty nodded. It tied in with what Astell had told them. He mentioned the marks Appleby had found on the wall, and asked, “Could Moon have remained conscious for long enough to write anything on the wall? Or is it more likely someone else wrote it in an attempt to mislead us?”

  “Head injuries are funny things. People with fractured skulls have been known to walk about for hours. So, yes, Moon could have either remained conscious or only blacked out for a while and then come to. Certainly for long enough to scrawl something on a wall. Mind, there's no saying whether he'd be capable of writing anything sensible. There was only the one blow and he died from it.”

  Thankfully, the PM eventually finished and they left Sam still muttering into his tape recorder. Waiting for his stomach to settle, Rafferty was grateful for the concealing darkness of the Autumn evening. Crowds of commuters would soon be pouring out of the station homewards, but Rafferty knew there was little chance of them going home yet. It was still only the first day of the investigation – to Rafferty it already felt like he'd been on the case the best part of a week – and they still had hours of work ahead of them. He breathed in sharply, and as the fresh air cleansed the stink of death from his nostrils, he felt sufficiently recovered to tease, “Hope Maureen's got an electric blanket, Dafyd, as I can't see either of us being free to cuddle up to anything warmer than a pile of reports for hours.”

  The flickering lights of the car park illuminated Llewellyn's heightened colour, and Rafferty guessed that Maureen, one of his innumerable cousins; intellectual, feminist and with decided opinions of her own, had overcome Llewellyn's old-fashioned scruples. She'd probably persuaded him up to see some superior etchings – Greek ones, most likely. About time somebody had, he thought. As they reached the car, Rafferty said, 'I want both Farley's and Ginnie Campbell's alibis checked out as soon as possible. Liz Green should have finished interviewing the TV and Astrology groups by now, so put her onto it. I'd like her reports and those on the magazine interviews on my desk first thing in the morning. With luck, we should have some news on both Moon's previous identity and his phone calls by then – might give us a few useful pointers. Especially as neither Farley nor Astell were prepared to admit knowing Moon's real name, which I find unlikely. I have to wonder what he – and perhaps they – were trying to hide.