RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  Chapter Four

  RAFFERTY'S FEELING of irritation, like most of his moods, quickly passed. 'Glad to see you're back to your wise-cracking self again,' he teased Llewellyn, as with the news-breaking now behind them, the Welshman's cello-length features had reverted to their normal fiddle proportions.

  Llewellyn parked the car precisely in the centre of the marked lines of the police station car park, and turned off the ignition, before he replied. 'I've never considered murder to be a joking matter, sir,' he quietly rebuked. The words, "unlike you", hovered unspoken between them.

  Rafferty, defensive in turn, retorted, 'We all have our own ways of coping with the strain, Dafyd. Just because I find it helps to keep my sense of humour intact doesn't mean I'm some kind of flinty-hearted dog. Surely you know that by now?'

  Llewellyn studied him silently for a few moments before, with a nod, he acknowledged the truth of this.

  'You could do with lightening up a bit yourself, you know,' Rafferty advised, as they got out of the car and headed towards the station. 'With all your psychology training, you must realise that your way of coping with strain is bad for the health. You're in serious danger of going doolally before you're forty.'

  'Do you think that will be before or after you're admitted to the coronary ward owing to your unhealthy lifestyle, sir?'

  Rafferty, who liked a drink, loathed exercise, and, until recently, had been a thirty a day man, grinned, said 'Touché,' and slapped Llewellyn between the shoulder blades. 'Come on, fiddle-face. Let's see if we can't catch ourselves that murderer before Bradley's PIMP-mobile comes for me.' Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the letter to Hedges. 'The first thing is to find out Moon's real name. Farley seemed a touch bashful about revealing it. Maybe Moon's famous clients aren't the only ones with skeletons rattling in the closets?'

  Mrs Hadleigh hadn't taken long over the photo-fit, and had gone by the time they returned to the station. Having instructed one of the junior officers to type up her statement, Rafferty, feet on desk, read it through, before asking Llewellyn, 'What do you make of the cleaner's evidence, Dafyd? Think Moon saw someone else after this Henderson bloke? Would he be likely to kill Moon when he knew the cleaner had seen him and could identify him?'

  Llewellyn's bony fingers stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Not if it was a premeditated killing. But, from what you, yourself said, the type of murder indicates it was done on the spur of the moment. A sudden rush of blood to the head, you might say.'

  'And a sudden rush of crystal ball to Jasper Moon's.' Rafferty nodded. 'The killer didn't bring the murder weapon with him. Astell told us it belonged to Moon, and that it usually sat on his desk.' He was silent for a moment, contemplating the rest of the cleaner's statement. 'Mrs Hadleigh implied Henderson was worked up about something, as if he was—'

  'She said he seemed nervous,' Llewellyn corrected. 'That could mean anything. Perhaps only that he was consulting Moon about some pressing personal problem. Confiding in a third party would be enough to agitate most people. At the moment, he's merely one possibility,' he reminded Rafferty. 'Perhaps, when we find out Moon's previous identity, we'll discover many more.'

  Llewellyn was right, of course, and Rafferty told himself to slow down. As usual, he was rushing ahead of the game. He often wished he had Llewellyn's calm, rational approach to crime. The logical, Holmesian process of deduction might – jokingly – have been claimed by Sam Dally, but Dafyd Llewellyn was the true practitioner of the art. Rafferty had never been able to work that way and doubted he ever would. He put it down to his genes, inherited from generations of hot-headed, impulsive Irishmen. When he saw a clue – even when he only thought he saw a clue – he wanted to be up and at it, clutching at it and the straws that came with it. He knew it was inefficient, but it was the way he functioned. And it seemed to work most of the time—eventually.

  He smiled ruefully at his sergeant and decided to show him that he could go about things in a logical manner. 'It strikes me that the quickest way to find out if this Henderson was a client is to ask Astell.' Llewellyn picked up the phone, but Rafferty waved it away. 'No. Let's pay a visit. I want to speak to Mrs Astell, anyway. There are a number of points I want to check.'

  THE ASTELLS’ LIVED in some style. Of course, Ellen Hadleigh had mentioned that Mrs Astell was well off, Rafferty remembered, so Astell presumably wasn't dependant on the business for income, which, from what he had said, was fortunate in the circumstances.

  The house was on two floors and detached; mid Nineteenth century, according to Rafferty's knowledgeable guess, it stood in its own small grounds, and while not by any means ostentatious, it was one of those irregularly-built old houses which incorporated bay windows, a gabled porch, steeply-pitched roofs and tall chimney stacks, which together gave the house a picturesque charm.

  Ellen Hadleigh opened the door. After his initial surprise at seeing her there, Rafferty remembered Astell had told them she cleaned for them. He explained that they wanted to speak to Astell and she stood back, gesturing for them to enter the square hall. 'He's not here at the moment,' she told them. 'I don't think he'll be long, though, if you want to wait.'

  The hall was lined with photographs, and Rafferty remembered that Astell's late father-in-law had been a well-known Society photographer. He recognised a lot of the faces; many of them were still featured in the gossip columns today. 'Maybe we could have a word with Mrs Astell while we wait?' Rafferty suggested. He felt sure, that being female, Mrs Astell might have some interesting insights into the victim. Besides, he needed to get her statement.

  Mrs Hadleigh frowned. 'She's lying down at the moment. She doesn't usually see visitors.'

  Rafferty forbore from remarking that they were scarcely visitors in the accepted sense. 'We won't keep her long, tell her. Mr Astell mentioned that his wife's a semi-invalid. Some kind of nervous ailment, I gather?'

  'Too much time to think and not enough to do.' Bluntly, Ellen Hadleigh gave them her opinion. 'And I don't think all those pills help any. A little job would do her more good, get her out and about, seeing people. It's not as if she's got anything physically wrong with her, yet, she's become worse rather than better since she had Victoria five years ago. Still,' she pursed her lips. 'It's none of my business. If you'll wait here for a minute, I'll ask if she'll see you.'

  It was hot in the hall, and Rafferty was grateful for an opportunity to ease his shirt collar away from his neck without being observed. Ellen Hadleigh opened one of the doors to the right side of the hall. It led into a small sitting room that overlooked the shrubbery.

  Rafferty edged forward and caught a glimpse of Sarah Astell through the open door. Her eyes were closed, and she was stretched out on a chaise-longue beneath the old fashioned French windows. Long, stick-like wrists and ankles protruded from beneath the brown mound of the blanket; pale beneath the soil rich colouring of the cover; like the bones of a recently disinterred skeleton, they looked unused to sunlight. The shrubs bordering the house, already denuded of leaves, appeared to crouch over her body like so many under-nourished Triffids ready to devour her. Their stems whipped back against the window by the strengthening east wind tap-tapped a staccato, vaguely Hitchcockian rhythm. Beneath their eerie tapping, the house was hung about with an almost monastic silence.

  Ellen Hadleigh's brisk voice shattered the silence to announce the visitors. Mrs Astell's head swivelled towards them. It was a pinched, unhappy face, mauve-shadowed under the eyes.

  Passing them as they entered, Ellen Hadleigh cautioned before closing the door behind them, 'Please try to keep it short or I'll be in Mr Astell's bad books. He won't have her upset.'

  Even before the door had closed, the hot-house atmosphere of the room engulfed them. Rafferty had felt stifled in the hall, but this room was far more oppressive and must be several degrees hotter. He assumed that the temperature was kept high for Mrs Astell's sake; she was certainly thin enough to need the extra warmth. Rafferty knew she was only 38, but she looked much o
lder, her skin covered with a network of fine lines which gave the impression she might crack at any moment.

  Quickly, aware he had been staring, Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn, shuffling forward cautiously, feeling out of place in the dainty room. What with bottles of sleeping pills, and tranquillizers, and stomach mixtures littering one table, and photographs and delicate knick-knacks crowded on another, he was scared he would blunder into one of them and break something precious. Strange, Rafferty mused. Why was it that women who seemed to have everything – film stars, models, leisured wives – often found their easy, pampered lives difficult to cope with? So many seemed to develop nervous problems behind which they nursed a drink or drug habit. Rafferty had never understood it. His mother had had more pressures to contend with than most. Left widowed with six kids to support, she had never turned to anything more than the occasional bottle of Babysham to sustain her. Of course, she had barely had enough money to pay the bills, never mind indulge expensive tastes.

  He started to sweat, the deodorised male odour mingled with the smells of sickness; of menthol, cough syrup, liniment, and were swallowed up as efficiently as a snapping dog swallows a fly.

  Sarah Astell gave them a wan smile. 'Do please sit down, gentleman,' she invited, voice weak, the words well-spaced out between shallow breaths. 'I imagine you're here about Jasper Moon's death?'

  'That's right, Mrs Astell,' Rafferty replied quietly. The heat and the smells in the unventilated room brought back painful memories of his wife's stay in the hospice. Angie's had been a lingering, painful death, the pain not always, at the end, successfully alleviated by drugs. His shoulders hunched as he remembered the rows he'd tried to avoid, the smouldering resentments they had both felt, in his case compounded by guilt that he no longer loved her—if he ever had. He shouldn't shut his mind off from them, his doctor had advised, they should be faced, but Rafferty didn't agree. Dwelling on that time didn't help him come to terms with it; perhaps it never would, and now he closed off that section of his brain. Such memories were better confined to the mental dustbin, the lid banged firmly on.

  Rafferty forced a smile, and glanced round for a seat sturdier than the small, flounced boudoir chair at the end of the day bed. The only other choice was a scarcely more substantial spindly-legged settee. It didn't look strong enough to support him and Llewellyn, and he lowered his lanky body gingerly.

  'It's Louis Quinze,' Llewellyn whispered in his ear, in an admiring tone as he sat beside him.

  Louis was welcome to it, thought Rafferty, as he shifted his buttocks on the inadequately stuffed cushions. Style was all very well, he thought, but did it have to be so bloody uncomfortable?

  'My husband told me what happened, Inspector. Most reluctantly, I need hardly add. He's always trying to shield me from unpleasantness.' She directed an anxious smile at them, as though doubtful that they would be as considerate of her feelings as her husband. 'I'm sure Mrs Hadleigh thinks I'm very spoilt. Of course, he was worried it would upset me.'

  If she was upset by Jasper Moon's murder, she hid it well, thought Rafferty. After all, Moon had been her husband's partner for two years and had worked for him for three before that; she must surely have known him quite well. 'Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you knew of Jasper Moon,' he invited. 'In a murder investigation, it always helps to get as many views and opinions as possible.'

  She sighed. 'Speaking ill of the dead is not something I would normally do, Inspector.' She paused, glanced briefly at him and then went on, 'But I can see that I must put aside such scruples.' Her brown eyes shadowed, and she admitted, 'I never felt comfortable with him. His homosexuality—repelled me.'

  Rafferty was glad to learn that he wasn't alone in his political incorrectness. He noticed her voice had now become firm, the invalid's quaver vanished or forgotten as she put aside the rest of her scruples and warmed to her theme.

  'But aside from his – homosexuality' – once again, she snapped the word out as if she wanted it said as quickly as possible, as if the very word offended her, 'I always felt he took unfair advantage of Edwin; the times he left him holding the fort while he jetted off round the world seeing his star clients. And thoughtless—in the years he and Edwin worked together, he never managed to send his birthday card on the correct day. It was always late. I don't know why he bothered at all if he couldn't take the trouble to get it right.'

  She sat back, with an exasperated smile. 'Edwin insisted he didn't mind, and of course, as I made a point of avoiding Moon, I hardly had an opportunity to point it out to him. Not that I would have done, anyway. Edwin warned me it would only embarrass both of them if I did so, so, for Edwin's sake, I put up with the annual irritation it caused me.' Her expression self-deprecating, she added, 'Like my dear father, I've always believed a wife's role to be a secondary, supportive one, Inspector. I'm sure you agree.'

  After a wry glance at Llewellyn, whose girlfriend inclined more to the feminist persuasion, Rafferty nodded politely. Personally, he agreed with Llewellyn, that women who always put themselves second were fools. No-one respected a doormat. But Sarah Astell seemed proud of her boot-wiping quality.

  Rafferty remembered now that Astell had told them he put a lot of his wife's trouble squarely at her father's door. 'Sarah adored him,' he had told them. 'But he was seldom at home, and even when he was, he paid her scant attention. She became anorexic in her teens, but that's been under control for years and her weight's steady, though she doesn't seem to improve at all. Still,' he had added on a bright note, as if that were all he could hope for, 'the doctors are pleased with her.'

  Looking at her now, Rafferty concluded that Mrs Astell's doctors must be easily pleased. She couldn't weigh any more than eight stone, low for someone whose long limbs looked as if, standing, she'd be about 5'8". She must still eat like a sparrow.

  'No,' Sarah Astell continued. 'I didn't like him. I made a point of meeting him as little as possible, that's why I never went to my husband's business premises. Even when Edwin first started to work for him, there was something about him that made me uneasy. Oh, he was pleasant enough to me then, went out of his way to be attentive, even insisted on drawing up a natal chart for me. But lately, he had begun to make disparaging remarks about my father. I think he was jealous of him, of his reputation. I don't suppose he thought they'd get back to me, but they did. He might have brought in a lot of business, but money has never been that important to Edwin or me.' She smiled her taut smile. 'We live simply. Neither of us is extravagant. We have each other, our daughter, and our lovely home. What more could anyone want?'

  'It's certainly a beautiful house,' Rafferty agreed.

  He had evidently hit the right note, for she smiled warmly at him. 'Yes, we're lucky. This house has been in my mother’s family for generations. Of course, the grounds used to be more extensive, but land had to be sold to pay death duties. My mother's now married to a well-set up man and lives in Scotland. She gave this place to me when she remarried, and, of course, as I was an only child – my parents waited ten years for me – I had no brothers or sisters to demand their share.' With an unconscious arrogance, she added, 'Perhaps you know that my father was Sir Alan Carstairs?' She nodded at a framed coloured photograph which held pride of place on one wall. Under flopping dark hair, Alan Carstairs stared back at them from clear blue eyes. He had been a handsome man, and his expression implied that he had been well aware of it. 'He was a very successful society photographer in the fifties and sixties,' she told them. 'I'm sure you've heard of him.'

  They nodded in unison, and while Llewellyn proceeded to draw her out, talking knowledgeably of photography in that reserved manner that women seemed to find so endearing, Rafferty let his mind and his eyes roam. Astell had told him she had adored her father even though he had neglected her. Rafferty could see why. The photograph was of a man in his prime, self-assured, good-looking, and vigorous. A man who turned heads and attracted admirers with no effort at all. A man who was perhaps a little sp
oilt, a little selfish, but understandably so. A fast-living extrovert, Carstairs, when he wasn't racing round the world snapping the famous of the day, had been the subject of other photographers' lenses. Newspaper snaps of him had invariably featured him in some exotic part of the world, beautiful women draped around him. The man had seemed to trail an ever-changing harem, and Rafferty wondered what his wife had thought of her husband's lifestyle.

  Carstairs might have paid his daughter scant attention, but at least he appeared to have left her well supplied with filthy lucre. And, he noticed, for a woman who didn't like visitors, she seemed to have blossomed under Llewellyn's attention. The invalid's rug had been completely discarded, and she sat forward, her face animated, hands expressive as they discussed her father's genius. Rafferty returned from his wool-gathering just as Llewellyn's social skills gave out.

  Now he asked, 'I understand you and your husband were at home on the night Mr Moon died?'

  'That's right. I imagine Edwin's told you it was the anniversary of my dear father's death? I kept the gathering small this year, just my husband, myself, Mrs Moreno whom my husband employs, and Clara Davies, an old friend of my father. She was a very talented designer and often went on location with him. But even though the gathering was small, I still insisted on black tie. I like to mark the occasion with a proper respect. I even managed to persuade Edwin to buy a new suit this year while we were in Elmhurst, though, of course, he kept putting it off and left it too late to get his usual made-to measure.' Unexpectedly, she glanced at Rafferty in his tired suit and gave him an arch smile. 'You men and your comfortable old clothes, how you do cling onto them.'

  Ruefully, Rafferty looked down at his best brown suit. Perhaps it was past its prime. He stretched his legs out and studied the worn, shiny hillocks that stood away from his knees.

  Edwin Astell appeared in the doorway. 'Hello. Mrs Hadleigh said you were here.' He glanced at his wife. 'Are you all right, dear? You look rather flushed. My wife tires easily, Inspector, as I told you. I hope you've not been wearing her out.'