Death Line

by Geraldine Evans

  “Of course, this morning I overslept. That's why I'm so behind today,” she told him. “I just rushed straight round here, and never gave a thought to the shop being open, or else I'd have left them till last.”

  Rafferty nodded, glad to have one puzzle solved. Anxious not to alarm her, but conscious of the fact that she could have been the last person to see Moon alive, he asked casually, “I gather Mr Moon was still working when you left the offices?” She nodded. “Was he alone, do you know?”

  She didn't answer immediately. Rafferty was about to repeat the question when she said, “Sorry. It's been such a shock. Mr Moon was in his office when I left. But he wasn't alone.” She paused and added quietly, “He had a client with him.”

  Rafferty's sharp demand of, “A client? Are you sure?” made her jump. Quickly, he apologised. But it was their first lead and to get it so early in the case was more than he had hoped for. She confirmed it. Trying to control the excitement in his voice, Rafferty asked, “Do you know this client's name, Mrs Hadleigh?”

  She hesitated, bit her lip and gazed across the road as if seeking inspiration. Rafferty's hopes began to subside. But then, she told him firmly, “Mr Moon called him Mr Henderson.”

  “Did you see him at all, Mrs Hadleigh?” Llewellyn questioned. She nodded and Rafferty began to get excited again. “A description would be useful,” the Welshman prompted.

  A faint flush coloured her cheeks as, haltingly, she told him, “He was about fifty, I'd say, with thinning grey hair. Quite a stocky build. His clothes were shabby, so I'm surprised he could afford Mr Moon's fees. He seemed nervous. He almost dropped the tea Mr Moon asked me to make for them.”

  Rafferty was astonished that she had been so observant. Most people barely noticed what day it was, never mind anything else. Still, it was fortunate for them that she had. “These cups – I gather you washed them up?” There had been none on the desk or in the sink.

  She nodded. “Washed, dried and put away. Mr Astell's always very firm about the place looking clean and tidy.” She shivered, as a cold wind whistled along the High Street. It lifted the previous night's litter and whirled it in a fitful dance about their ankles. Someone had discarded a blue and red striped umbrella in the gutter. The material fluttered in the wind as though trying to rise – its spine broken if not its spirit, thought Rafferty whimsically as he watched it – only to sink back again after each abortive effort. Then, the wind dropped, the umbrella accepted its fate and lay still. Rafferty made a mental note to tell the SOCOs to pick it up, just in case it had any connection with the case.

  Mrs Hadleigh shivered again and Rafferty took her arm. “It's too chilly here to chat. Could you come to the station and help our Photo-fit expert construct a picture of this client? What you've told us is very important. Apart from the murderer, this Mr Henderson may have been the last person to see Mr Moon alive.”

  She hesitated again, and then gave an anxious little nod. Rafferty guessed she was concerned about being late for the next cleaning job of the morning and he reassured her. “I'm sure it won't take long.” He helped her up and led her over to the car. “I'll arrange for a car to take you home – or wherever else you need to go – afterwards. Llewellyn.” He tossed the car keys to the Welshman. “You can drive.” Rafferty only hoped it would help take his mind off their next appointment.

  As soon as they had deposited Mrs Hadleigh with the Photo-fit man, and Rafferty had uttered further assurances, they left them to it. There was too much work ahead of them to spare any of it holding a witness's hand. “Right,” he said. “Let's get on with it. I want you to send WPC Green along to the local Astrological Society. Astell said he and Moon were both members. I also want her to go to the TV Studios where Moon did his morning show. Tell her to ask around and see what she can find out. About Moon, Astell, the rest of the staff and the set up there.” Liz Green was good with people, Rafferty knew. Had a way of drawing them out – just like Moon. “Get someone to contact the editors of the magazines he supplied with astrological forecasts. He'd worked for several of them for some time – might learn something interesting.” He paused, thinking. “Oh, and get Moon's phone checked out. I want to know what numbers were called on it. Come back when you've got all that organised and we'll go and see the boyfriend.”

  Rafferty could almost believe that the wind, which had seemed to quieten while they were in the station, had waited for them to re-emerge onto the street, before reasserting itself. Its icy breath was bitter and shrieked painfully in his ears. He tugged his coat collar as high over his ears as it would reach, and put up with it. It was only a short walk to Moon's home in Quaker Street, not worth a car ride. Moon's flat was in the old Dutch quarter of town, a chic, expensive area, which confirmed that star gazing was a profitable line.

  The man who opened the door to their knock was fat, fair and fiftyish. Rafferty was surprised. He had expected a much younger man; the equivalent of the bimbo that successful heterosexual males liked to hang from their arm. “Mr Farley?” Rafferty queried.

  He nodded and gave them a hesitant, questioning smile that didn't reach his eyes, which were a flat green colour and reminded Rafferty of those of a snake. They slid rapidly from Rafferty to Llewellyn and back again before he asked politely, “What can I do for you?”

  Farley's voice was well-modulated, though Rafferty got the impression it was practised rather than natural. Rafferty showed him his warrant card and introduced himself and Llewellyn. “Perhaps we might come in?” Rafferty suggested. “I'm afraid we have some bad news for you.”

  Farley stared at him. His skin flushed and then the colour receded, leaving two stark pink blotches high up on his cheeks. Surprisingly elegant fingers clutched at each other as he exclaimed, “Oh, God, something's happened to Jasper, hasn't it?” Anxiety had made his voice curiously high-pitched, and now it became even higher. “Tell me, tell me, for the love of God. Has something happened to Jasper?”

  Rafferty, mindful of Astell's warning, suggested again, more firmly, “If we could just come in?”

  Farley remained planted in the doorway, his expression uncertain, then he stood back to let them in, carefully shutting the door behind them before he clutched Rafferty's arm. “Tell me. Please. What's happened?”

  Resisting the impulse to throw off the clinging hand, Rafferty steered him towards what he hoped was the living room. It was a spacious flat, as colourful as Moon's office had been, but without the solar system decor. “I think you should sit down, Mr Farley.” He waited till Farley had perched on the edge of a stark black leather settee before he sat down in the armchair opposite. “I'm afraid Mr Moon is dead. He...”

  Christian Farley's hands flew to his face and he stared at them over his fingers, shaking his head all the while. His shock seemed genuine, Rafferty noted. What he could see of his fair-skinned face was pasty. Small fists now pressed against his mouth, Farley moaned, rocking to and fro on the leather settee. It creaked protestingly with each movement.

  Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn for moral support. As expected, the Welshman avoided his eye and stared determinedly over Farley's head. Rafferty struggled on, silently cursing Llewellyn and wishing he'd brought a WPC with him. “I'm afraid it's true, sir. He was found dead in his office this morning by his business partner.” He paused to gather strength and then said quickly, “I have to tell you that he was murdered.”

  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 video 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? they commented ironically. 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? he wondered, 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 video. 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 damn 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.”

&nb
sp; “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, thought Rafferty sourly. 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.”