RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  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 Henderson, 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 on to 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.' Rafferty 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, but the smells were worse; urine and faeces overlaid with the scent of meat 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 dramatise 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 native 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, 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 around the middle of 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 anythin
g 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.

  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 – was trying to hide.

  'While you're on the phone, you might get a few more answers from Astell—like how Mercedes and Ginnie Campbell got taken on. Whether it was through an advert or personal recommendation. I also need to get the address of his other guest, this what's her name—Clara Davies. Ring Farley as well. I don't want him to think I'm neglecting him. Ask him if he knows whether Moon wrote a Will.'

  WHEN THEY REACHED THE Constellation Consultants' offices, Llewellyn went into Astell's room and shut the door, while Rafferty went into Ginnie Campbell's office. He had set Lilley to checking through Moon's client files and pale blue folders were piled all around the floor making the desk look like a raft in a sea of paper. 'How are you getting on?' he asked DC Lilley's bent blond head.

  'I'm up to 'S'.' Lilley's grey eyes were still clear and bright with enthusiasm, in spite of hours of poring over paperwork. Of course, it was his first murder case, Rafferty reminded himself, as he took the growing list of names and addresses of Moon's clients from Lilley. Had his own youth been so eager, so shining? He couldn't remember. Too much experience – of life, death and everything in between – clouded his memory, and separated him from the young man he had been. Quickly, he scanned the list and handed it back. 'Did Mr Astell check if any were missing?' Lilley confirmed it, and told Rafferty that Astell felt pretty sure they were all there. He also confirmed again what he'd rung and told them earlier—that there was definitely no file for any Henderson.

  Rafferty nodded. 'You can make a start checking these names out first thing in the morning; I'll assign some more officers to help.' Llewellyn put his head round the door and Rafferty went out to the landing to talk to him.

  'I spoke to Mr Astell,' Llewellyn reported. 'He told me Moon had taken both Virginia Campbell and Mercedes Moreno on; he knew Mrs Campbell through the Astrological Society. Mrs Moreno met Moon at the television studios. She simply turned up there and asked for a job. Moon took her on to run the shop, which was shortly due to open. I rang Farley, but he claims he doesn't know whether Moon left a Will or not.'

  Rafferty raised his eyebrows. 'How very incurious of him. Especially as he's lived with the man for five years, and would seem to have a vested interest in how Moon disposed of his wealth. What about Clara Davies? Did you get her address?'

  Llewellyn nodded. 'Do you want me to go and see her now?'

  'No, Rafferty decided. 'Leave it till the morning.' He opened the door to Virginia Campbell's office. 'Come on, let's give Lilley a hand. Young lad like him needs his beauty sleep and he's been wading through those damn files all day.'

  Two hours later they'd finished going through the files and composing the list of the clients' names and addresses. It was 9.30 p m, and Rafferty let Lilley go home.

  'It's getting bloody cold in here,' Rafferty complained five minutes later when he and Llewellyn were alone. While he'd been wading through the remaining files he hadn't realised what a chill had settled on the room, but now he became conscious of it.

  'I gather Mr Astell insisted on turning the heating off before he left,' said Llewellyn. 'Said he was sorry but with the future of the business so uncertain with Jasper Moon's death, he had to start economising somewhere. We could sit in the kitchen while we go through the list,' he suggested. 'It might be a bit warmer in there.'

  'If it's not it soon will be,' Rafferty promised with a grin. 'I can't imagine that Astell thought of forbidding us the use of the gas stove. A gallon or two of hot, sweet tea should warm the cockles nicely.' Rafferty thought longingly of Sam Dally's hip flask and regretted not parting him from it while he’d had the chance.

  Ten minutes later, they sat companionably in the small kitchen, hands wrapped round large, bone china cups they'd found in a cupboard. It was snug, as, ignoring Llewellyn's warning that it was a method of heating not approved by the Gas suppliers, Rafferty had lit the oven, opening the door wide so the heat blasted out at them. The kitchen was too small to accommodate the SOCOs, and they had elected to take their hot drinks to Astell's less cluttered office.

  By the time they had read through the entire list of names, Rafferty was onto his second cup of tea. He tapped the list in front of him and grinned. 'Wouldn't mind analysing this Sian Silk's hand,' he remarked, with a sly eye on the Welshman. 'And the rest of her. Nice work if you can get it, hey? Wasted on Moon, of course.' Not to be drawn, Llewellyn simply sipped his tea. 'Let's run over the facts. Jasper Moon was a homosexual. He also occasionally bought stolen goods, both of which activities are likely to lead to him mixing with some pretty shady characters.' He waited to see if Llewellyn would be unkind enough to remind him that he had dismissed the criminal aspect earlier. When he didn't, he admitted, 'Maybe I was a bit quick to deny its possible importance. This criminal contact of his might have been small time and greedy. Let's face it; Moon's little thousand-pound spending splurges would be peanuts to a professional. Could be this crooked acquaintance of his bumped him off and went round the back and broke the window to set up the burglar scenario.'

  'The method of murder certainly suggests he knew his killer,' Llewellyn agreed, before quietly reminded him, 'though Moon apparently wasn't expecting to see this friend of his till the next day. And, of course, we again come back to the unlikelihood of such a criminal re-locking the cashbox and leaving the expensive knick-knacks.'

  Rafferty nodded gloomily. Whichever way they looked at it, they kept coming back to that. It was beginning to get on his nerves. 'Anyway, we'll get the squad to check with their snouts. See if anyone has any clues to who this chap might be.' Sam Dally had said Moon had been attacked from behind, which, as Llewellyn had said, indicated he had known his killer, thus, effectively eliminating any opportunistic burglar. The side door led directly to the first floor. It had an intercom system which would enable Moon to check the identity of any visitor before releasing the door. They hadn't yet found anything to indicate that Moon w
ent in for blackmail, Rafferty recalled. At least, the contents of his office hadn't revealed any such proclivities. Of course, they had yet to thoroughly check his home and his bank account, though if he was sensible, any money extorted by such means would be stashed in a bank deposit box somewhere. Rafferty put his drained cup in the sink and turned off the oven. 'Better get back to the station. See how the house-to-house team is getting on and if there’s anything on this Henderson man. His details should have been on the early evening news.'

  But, in spite of television, radio and newspaper appeals, Moon's client, Henderson, had still not come forward by the next morning. Rafferty began to wonder if he might not have good reason for keeping his head down. They had found no file for him in Moon's cabinet. Of course, as no-one else in the partnership seemed to have heard of him, it was possible that he was a new client for whom a file hadn't yet been made. But, whoever he had been, it seemed probable that, unless Moon had had another, later visitor, Henderson had been the last person to see Moon alive.

  'Get onto the media again please Dafyd,' Rafferty instructed. 'Get them to put out the Henderson appeal once more. Someone must know him. Unless we're very unlucky,' which was a possibility Rafferty felt he could never discount, 'he can't have vanished into thin air.'

  Llewellyn nodded and went out.

  Admittedly, Moon's consultancy wasn't confined to local or even national clients, extending across The Atlantic and beyond, but, even so, Rafferty had considered it worthwhile to check each Henderson in the local phone book, but none of them had matched Mrs Hadleigh's description. They were lucky they at least had a description to give to the media.

  It was an hour later when Llewellyn returned. He advised Rafferty that the Henderson appeal was going to be run again on that night's early evening news, and then added to a strangely distracted Rafferty, 'I've spoken to Clara Davies, the other guest at the Astells’ house. She confirms what Mr Astell said. The party broke up early. She left in a taxi at 8.05 p m. We've also got the answers concerning the numbers that were called from Moon's phone that BT supplied.'