Farley's hands came away from his face. His mouth fell open, and silently, he repeated Rafferty's last word, before he recommenced his rocking, his movements accompanied by the off-key complaints of the settee.
Rafferty, at a loss, instinctively followed his Ma's usual response in a crisis, and ordered Llewellyn to find the kitchen and make tea. With an alacrity to obey his orders that – under other circumstances, would have been gratifying – Llewellyn went. He was gone some time, and if Rafferty hadn't known better, he would have suspected he was hunting for a bottle of Dutch courage.
By the time Llewellyn returned with the tea Farley had quietened. He sat huddled in the middle of the big settee, looking lost, making no response to Rafferty's awkward sympathetic overtures. Llewellyn gave Farley's shoulder a tentative pat, put the tea on the table in front of him, and retreated to the far side of the room. Rafferty, who had confidently predicted tears, noted that Farley's eyes were dry. They appeared puzzled, his forehead faintly creased, as if he was thinking through what he had learned. He turned questioning eyes to Rafferty. 'You said Jasper was murdered. Have you any idea who by?'
Rafferty shook his head. 'Not yet. It's possible Mr Moon disturbed a burglar, as his office was broken into.'
Farley exclaimed, 'Not again!'
'I'm sorry?'
'We were burgled here earlier this year. While we were on one of Jas, Jasper's regular trips to The States. And now you say Jasper's office was broken into and Jasper murdered.' He worried at his bottom lip. 'And I thought...' He broke off. 'It's almost as if someone has a grudge against us.' The possibility, not unnaturally, seemed to unnerve him. As he picked up his tea, the cup, rattled against the saucer, betraying his agitation.
Rafferty had never liked coincidences. And although there had been a spate of burglaries in the town in recent months, he felt that this coincidence might be of more significance than most. 'What was taken from the flat, sir?'
Farley glanced up with a start. 'Very little, that's what was so surprising. They even left the DVD and the TV. Jasper's study desk and both our bedrooms had been gone through, but, apart from some jewellery, nothing else of value was taken. What was taken from Jasper's office?'
'A sum of money.'
Farley's gaze narrowed. His green eyes accentuated by the daylight that streamed in at the windows looked more snakelike than ever, as he asked, 'How much?'
'Mr Moon's business partner says £1000.'
Farley digested the information silently for a few seconds. 'But, surely...?'
'Yes, sir,' Rafferty encouraged. 'You were saying?'
'Nothing.' Farley glanced quickly at him before shaking his head. 'It doesn't matter.' He lapsed into silence, but he couldn't seem to help himself, and burst out, 'It's just that it seems—odd. If Jasper was-was working, the lights would be on. At least—’ He broke off again, before asking hesitantly, 'Were they on?' Rafferty nodded, and Farley sat back, his eyes calculating. 'Would a burglar break in under such circumstances?'
Unwilling to share his suspicions concerning the burglary with Farley, Rafferty gave him the line he had prepared earlier. 'I'm afraid the modern criminal often doesn't care if premises are occupied, sir. Could be a drug addict, desperate enough for money not to bother with the usual precautions. But, at this stage, I'm keeping an open mind.' As he said this, he became conscious of Llewellyn. He was standing, his gaze now fixed on the floor, but Rafferty sensed the thought waves emanating from him. Keeping an open mind? That must be a first.
After projecting a few strongly-worded thought waves of his own in return, Rafferty concentrated his attention on Farley. 'You said you wondered if someone bore Mr Moon a grudge. Do you know if he had any enemies? Someone who had threatened him, perhaps?'
Farley shook his head. 'None that I know of. But Jasper was very successful and success always breeds envy, particularly in this country. I'm afraid the British have always found failure a more attractive trait.'
Rafferty had thought he had detected a slight accent. 'I take it you're not British, Mr Farley?'
'No. I'm from South Africa. The Cape. But I've lived here for more than twenty years.'
'I understand you've known Mr Moon for five years?'
Farley gave a twisted smile, as though he found Rafferty's biblical phraseology amusing. 'Yes, it would have been five years on the 18th of next month. Our Wooden Anniversary. I was going to get Jasper a small carved sculpture of our sun signs, intertwined. Like a lovers' knot, you know?' The thought clearly upset him, for now his eyes held the hint of moisture that thus far had been missing. Turning away, he blew his nose with a feminine neatness.
Rafferty shifted uncomfortably, as the thought struck him that, in Farley's eyes, if not society's, he had been widowed; widowed, moreover, without any of the support a legal widow might expect. He opened his mouth to say something sympathetic, but, realising that anything he said would sound, to Farley, either patronising, trite or insincere, he gave up and waited for Farley to get control of himself, then gently resumed the questioning. 'I gather you and Mr Moon lived here together?' Farley nodded. 'You must have been concerned when he didn't come home last night.'
'I wasn't here.' He seemed to feel he had to defend himself. 'I was visiting a—a friend for a day or two. I only got back this morning. Naturally, I assumed Jasper had gone to work. Of course, if I'd looked in his bedroom, I'd have seen his bed hadn't been slept in.'
So, they slept apart. Rafferty wondered if that was usual in their circumstances. Or whether, like ordinary married couples who chose to sleep separately, it hinted that their relationship had cooled? Had they had an argument? Was that why Farley had gone to see this friend? And why the tears had been so long in coming and so sparse? Yet, Farley had been planning to buy Moon an expensive anniversary gift, a gift that showed thought and care, albeit presumably bought with Moon's money. 'I'm afraid I'll have to ask you for the name and address of this friend, Mr Farley.'
As he realised the significance of the question, Farley's face flushed, and he opened his mouth as if to protest. But then, presumably thinking better of remonstrating, he told them, 'His name's Turner—Andrew Turner.' He added the address.
'I don't like to ask this Mr Farley, but as Mr Moon's been murdered, it will be necessary for us to look through his things to see if we can find anything that might help our investigations.'
Farley frowned. 'What sort of thing?'
'It's hard to say. Could be a letter, or a diary. Anything that might help us discover if anyone did have a grudge against him. Where would he be likely to keep such things?'
'In his bedroom or study, I imagine.'
The study was small, no more than twelve feet square. Rafferty guessed this was where Moon had given consultations for intimates. Apart from a computer of the same make as the one in Moon's office, it contained similar books, works by past, presumably revered practitioners of their art; a chap called Cheiro seemed to feature prominently, Rafferty noticed. As soon as Farley left, they began their search in earnest.
Moon was a hoarder. They found piles of circulars, newspaper cuttings featuring the dead man, as well as a yellowing reminder from The Blood Donor Centre to somebody called Hedges.
'Hedges,' Rafferty murmured, as he showed the reminder to Llewellyn. 'Reckon that was Moon's real name?'
'Possibly. It shouldn't be difficult to find out. Farley must know.'
Rafferty nodded and put the letter in his pocket. Eager to shake off the feelings of inadequacy he had felt in Farley's presence, he joked, 'Reminds me of one of the old Hancock's Half Hour series on the telly. The one about the blood donor. Do you remember the bit where he says to the doctor—?'
'I rarely watch television,' Llewellyn interrupted. 'But I think that was before my time, anyway.'
Reminded that another birthday was looming, Rafferty said tartly, 'It's available on DVD. You should get it. Tony Hancock might be dead, but then, so are those ancient Greeks you're so fond of quoting, and at least he's a d
amn sight more entertaining.' Disgruntled, he carried on with the search.
In one of the desk drawers, he found a stack of autographed photographs of Moon. His signature was written with such an exuberant flourish that Rafferty's lip curled. 'Jasper Moon,' he snorted. 'What sort of a name is that, anyway?'
'Mr Astell said it was originally the victim's professional name. But I gather he legally adopted it as his own years ago.'
'What did he want with a professional name?' Rafferty scoffed. 'The man was nothing more than a glorified end of pier charlatan.'
'Your prejudices are showing, sir,' Llewellyn remarked laconically. 'Have you forgotten the superintendent's politeness programme? I suspect that when he finally realises the descriptive qualities of that acronym with which you provided him, like Shylock, he'll be satisfied with nothing less than his pound of flesh—your flesh. If you don't want to supply him with an extra knife, it might be wise to keep such opinions to yourself.'
Rafferty knew he was right. It had been idiotic of him to give into the impulse when Bradley had asked for suggestions. But he had a perverse, anti-authority streak, which he guessed stemmed from his schooldays. Ironic, really, that he had fallen – or been pushed – into the police force, the most authoritarian career of them all. The trouble was that the pompous Bradley brought this perverse streak out in spades. At least, this time, his imprudence had provided him with ample amusement, he reflected, even if Bradley did cut him into collops for his trouble. 'I'll be careful, don't worry. Anyway, if he doesn't like being considered a pimp, he shouldn't act like one.'
Llewellyn shrugged, as much as to say: don’t say I didn't warn you, before adding, 'It'll probably amuse you to know that Moon chose the name Jasper because he thought it singularly appropriate to his skills. It means "Treasure Master", the treasure, in this case, presumably being knowledge.'
Rafferty's lips turned down. 'It seems to me his greatest talent was for acquiring booty. Look around you,' he invited, as he pointed out the expensive knick-knacks scattered around the room. 'This place is more like Blackbeard's den than a study.' He stuffed Moon's stack of photographs in his jacket pocket. At least they'd come in handy for the house to house enquiries.
They turned up the dead man's passport. As expected, it was in the name of Moon. There was no sign of a Will or a birth certificate. Probably sprang to life from under a moonbeam. His rummaging dislodged yet another photograph, this time a dog-eared black and white snapshot featuring a smiling, gummy-mouthed infant. The year 1956 was inscribed on the back. Rafferty thrust the photo back in the drawer. 'Let's take a look in the bedroom.'
The bedroom contained a television and DVD, with a stack of popular film tapes stored underneath. Surprisingly, he found a single tape in Moon's wardrobe. It was right at the back of the top shelf, stashed behind some shoe boxes. It looked different from the rest. It was in a plain, but distinctive emerald green case with an advertising sticker from a firm called Memory Lane DVDs, who specialised in transferring old cine film to DVD.
Curious to discover why anyone should attempt to conceal one tape, Rafferty switched on the TV and DVD and inserted it. 'If we're to catch the killer, we'd better try to learn something more of the victim,' he commented, as he sat on the edge of the bed. 'Perhaps this will tell us something useful?'
From the name on the box, he had expected some footage from Moon's youth, but as the film started to roll and he realised that the film didn't contain happy family memorabilia at all, his stomach muscles tightened in embarrassment. It was one of those terribly arty, sensitive films about homosexual love. Amateurishly done, it had a dated, forties look. The two naked young men caressing each other under the trees sported short back and side’s haircuts. One had the kind of profile that belonged on Roman coins; the other seemed as keen on making love to the camera lens as to his companion. Rafferty was disconcerted when the Narcissus on the grass stared unselfconsciously back at him, and he dropped his gaze. Neither of them was Moon, who, anyway, could have been no more than eight or ten years old at the time.
The car visible through the shrubbery also had a dated look. It was parked in front of a large country house, the edge of which was just visible in the film and provided a backdrop for the embracing figures.
'Isn't that an old Wolseley?' Rafferty mumbled idiotically, unwilling to turn the film off and reveal how embarrassed it made him feel.
'A Wolseley 14/56.' Llewellyn, the car buff, quietly confirmed it. 'A favourite of the police force in the forties.'
Constrained by his awareness of Llewellyn's strongly moralistic upbringing, Rafferty felt unable to ease his embarrassment by making the kind of coarse crack he might have made with anyone else. Llewellyn tended to have the effect of making you feel cheapened by your own prejudices, and Rafferty reflected that the Jesuits had hit the nail on the head when they had roundly declared, "Give me a child to the age of seven and I will give you the man". Because with Llewellyn, neither public school, nor university, nor the police force, had made any deep dents in that ingrained sense of right and wrong, that high-minded morality that was so out of step with the modern world and its easy option attitudes. It was rare to meet, and uncomfortable for the more morally lax of his colleagues, among whom Rafferty, in a periodic burst of introspective self-knowledge, had certainly included himself. As they had got to know one another on a deeper level, he had discovered that, instead of the expected censure, Llewellyn often displayed a deep compassion for the failings of weaker-minded mortals. He did so now.
'Sad, isn't it,' he remarked, 'that young men should have so little self-respect that they should allow their bodies to be used for others' entertainment?'
Rafferty grunted and returned his attention to the flickering images on the screen. In silence, they watched the short film through to the end. Rafferty rewound it, turned the machines off, and replaced it in its cover with a relieved sigh.
They found nothing else in the bedroom and returned to the living room, with Rafferty clutching the DVD. There had been little else of interest in the flat, but he found Moon's possession of such an old, obviously amateur film, curious to say the least. Where had he got it from? Why had he got it? And why had he hidden it? Although, on the face of it, the film seemed unlikely to have anything to do with Moon's murder, Rafferty, aware that, in a murder case, curiosities, especially concealed curiosities, often rewarded investigation, thought the answers to his questions might prove interesting.
'We'll be going now, sir,' he told Farley. 'I'm afraid we'll have to take this. Llewellyn, write out a receipt, please.'
Farley looked up. 'A DVD? It doesn't look like one of ours. Where did you get it?'
'In Mr Moon's wardrobe.' Rafferty showed him the cover with its 'Memory Lane' motif. 'Have you ever seen this before, sir?'
Farley shook his head. 'But what's on it? Why on earth would Jasper keep it in his wardrobe?'
On an impulse, Rafferty played the tape through again for Farley's benefit. 'Do you know either of these young men, sir?' he asked when the tape had finished playing.
Farley shook his head again, and Rafferty felt sure he was telling the truth. 'No. I've no idea who they are.' He seemed puzzled rather than upset that Moon should have kept such a film and concealed it from him. 'If Jasper wanted to watch porn films, I'm sure he could do better than that.'
Rafferty nodded. That was what he had thought. 'By the way, sir.' He pulled the Blood Donor reminder letter from his pocket and showed it to Farley. 'Is Hedges Mr Moon's real name?'
The question seemed to disconcert Farley. His expression anxious, he blurted out that he didn't know, and then immediately looked even more anxious.
And here's another little mystery, Rafferty thought, not for a moment believing that Farley wouldn't have known Moon's real name. Rather than tell an out and out lie, Farley had foolishly, impulsively, decided on a midway course, and had immediately regretted it as he realised the police could easily discover Moon's real name from other sources. No doubt
there was some peccadillo in Moon's past which Farley hoped to conceal. But, Rafferty reflected, he'd find out soon enough that the pasts of murder victims were as thoroughly gone over as those of their killers. He'd often thought it appalling how little privacy they or their families were left. He didn't press Farley any further on the question of the name. Instead, he asked, 'Could you pop into the station in the next day or so, sir? As soon as you feel up to it.'
'Why?' By now, Farley looked even more lost than before, and his question was half-hearted, as if he had other things on his mind.
'I imagine you spent some time in Mr Moon's office?' Farley nodded. 'In that case, we'll need to eliminate your prints. It's just routine, sir, nothing to worry about.'
Llewellyn finished writing out the receipt and handed it to Farley. 'Would you like us to arrange for anyone to stay with you, sir?' he asked. 'A friend or a member of your family, perhaps, if they live here in the UK? All this must have been a great shock to you.'
Rafferty scowled as he realised he should have made the offer. Trust Llewellyn to remember the simple courtesies.
Farley, after a glance at Rafferty, shook his head. 'I don't want anyone. I'm better alone.' With a simple dignity, he added, 'But thank you for asking, Sergeant. I appreciate it.' Glancing again at Rafferty, he said, 'Most policemen seem barely able to conceal their distaste for homosexuals like myself, never mind show consideration.'
Rafferty was grateful for the rush of cold air that attacked them as they let themselves out of Moon's flat and retraced their steps. It blew away the shame that Farley's dig had made him feel. Judge not, lest you yourself be judged, was undoubtedly what Llewellyn would have said to him if he was foolish enough to mention it. Rafferty was irritated that his awkward attempts to be understanding had gone unnoticed. He'd done his best, dammit, he thought. It's not as if I licked such prejudices off the street. If was only fair that the Pope and his many battalions took their share of any censure going.
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