“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 round 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 wondered. 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 Board, 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 went 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, whomever 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. 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 we
re called from Moon's phone that BT supplied.”
“And?”
“All innocuous, and, apart from a call to Astell shortly after, all were to office numbers rung before 5.30 p m and all the call recipients even had unimpeachable alibis.”
“What did he call Astell about?”
“As you know, the day of the party was also Mrs Astell's birthday. Mrs Campbell told us Moon had a wrapped parcel for her on his desk, and Mr Astell said that Moon rang to find out whether she'd liked her present.”
“He didn't speak to her, then?”
“No. She was busy preparing that evening's snacks.” Llewellyn paused and went on to state the obvious, for which he had a remarkable propensity. “At least now we know that Moon didn't call anybody much after 6.00 p m, it would seem to indicate that Moon's receiver was knocked off its rest during the murder, which narrows the time down.”
“Mm.” Rafferty lowered his gaze back to the papers on his desk. “And this,” he slapped his hand down on the paperwork, “which was placed in my grateful hand not five minutes ago, would seem to indicate someone with a possible motive. Seems Hedges was Moon's real name,” he told Llewellyn. “And it wasn't wholly surprising that he changed it to the more mystic-sounding Jasper Moon. Because under his Hedges persona, Jasper Moon had a record. He was a teacher in his younger days, apparently, and had been convicted of sexually assaulting a young boy in his charge.” Rafferty's eyes were bright as he added, “And guess what the name of the boy he assaulted was – Terry Hadleigh. And Hadleigh not only has a record for burglary, but I've just had Fingers Fraser on the phone – turns out Hadleigh's fingerprints are all over Moon's office.”
Fraser had also dusted the cashbox and the video they had found in Moon's wardrobe. The cashbox had prints of the Consultancy's entire staff, but that wasn't surprising, they all handled it. If anyone else had touched it, they hadn't left prints behind. As for the video, the only prints they had found on it had been Rafferty's. Embarrassed by the last piece of information, and puzzled as to what it could mean, once he had mentioned it, he moved swiftly on. Unfortunately, as he told Llewellyn, Hadleigh had left no prints on the crystal ball itself, that had been wiped clean, but in Rafferty's book that made him look more guilty rather than less, as most of the prints had a perfect right to be there. Astell had told him that most people seemed fascinated by Moon's crystal ball and couldn't help touching it. Maybe Hadleigh had been seeking the help of Moon in order to discover the likely success of his next petty criminal enterprise? thought Rafferty with a quirk of humour. Savouring Llewellyn's expected reaction, he paused before he added the coup-de-grace. “Not just any fingerprints, mind. He left those bloody ones on the window-sill.”
Llewellyn's reaction wasn't entirely gratifying. His lips pursed, his eyes narrowed and he complained, “Seems a little bit too easy, don't you think?”
Rafferty sighed. “I might have known you'd have some fault to find. That Methodist hard work ethic of yours has a lot to answer for. Why shouldn't we have something easy for a change? I'm certainly not going to turn up my nose at a nice open and shut case. That's just the way I like them. Could even tie up with your theory about Moon trying to scrawl his attacker's name on the wall. The scrawl wasn't that clear. Could be he tried to write a 'T” rather than an “I'. It's not as if you've had any luck finding any Ians, Isaacs, or Isiahs known to Moon. Put out a call for Hadleigh pronto, Dafyd. Like yesterday.” He handed over the papers before adding, “And get yourself in front of a mirror and practise smiling. The way you look at the moment, you'll frighten our good fortune away.”
Llewellyn made for the door and opened it. Constable Beard stood on the other side, carefully balancing a tray with two mugs of tea. He was keeping it well away from his uniform jacket, with its gleaming buttons, in case of spills. Before Llewellyn disappeared, Rafferty added, “Hadleigh's last known address and his usual haunts are in the file. Though if he is our killer, he's unlikely to be at any one of them. Probably gone to ground.” Llewellyn nodded and departed.
“Hadleigh, did you say?” Constable Beard carefully placed one mug on each of the desks and straightened up, his lined face wincing slightly, as if his rheumatics were troubling him. “Would that be Terry Hadleigh you're talking about, sir, son of Mrs Ellen Hadleigh?”
“Rafferty nodded. 'That's right. Why? Do you know them?”
“Lord love you, yes.”
Rafferty managed to keep a straight face at this unusual mode of addressing a senior officer. Some of his colleagues objected to Beard's familiarity, but it didn't worry Rafferty; he certainly preferred such up-front behaviour to the devious office politics that others went in for. Besides, Beard was something of an institution at the station and, in Rafferty's opinion, had more than earned the right to consider himself the equal of anyone there. “Go on,” he now encouraged. “Tell me about them.”
“Mrs Hadleigh herself is a very respectable, hard-working woman. Believes in keeping herself to herself. But that son of hers used to be one of our more regular customers as a lad. Before your time, I imagine. Spends most of his time in London, now, I hear. You've obviously read his file, so you'll know he was into petty theft, burglary, even er, soliciting. The times we live in, hey?” Beard sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. “I was eighteen before I knew there was such a thing as a female prostitute, never mind any other sort. I wouldn't have learned that much but for having to do national service.”
“Yes, it's a man's life in the army,” said Rafferty. “Learn how to kill, learn how to strip a gun, learn how to put your condoms on. Seems like Hadleigh may have moved up several leagues. Into murder, no less.”
“Doesn't sound like Terry Hadleigh's cup of tea,” Beard objected. “He's never been into violence. In his game, he's more likely to be on the receiving end.”
“This time it looks like he's graduated into the big boys' league. And a fine mess he's made of it. Dabs all over the place. Do you reckon Ellen Hadleigh might know where he's to be found?”
Beard nodded. “Possible. He usually comes running home to mum when he's in trouble, when he's short of cash and wants to scrounge. If anyone knows where he is it'll be her. You might try that pub by the river at Northgate as well, The Troubadour. Last I heard, that's his favourite haunt when he's here. Where he goes for a drink and a pick-up. Maybe some of the other customers might have an idea of his whereabouts, too.”
Rafferty nodded. He knew the place. It was a gay bar. Henry, the landlord had been running the place for about five years, since returning from up north; he'd been born and brought up in Elmhurst. His parents had run an up-market bar and restaurant, The George Inn, to the south of the town for years. They'd only retired when their son had returned to Elmhurst.
“Tell Llewellyn to get copies of Hadleigh's mug-shots circulated, will you, Bill? And tell him to come back when he's done that and we'll pay a visit to this pub. I'd like to learn as much as possible about Sonny Jim before we see his mother, and his favourite gay haunt sounds the best place to start.”
Contentedly, Rafferty picked up his tea and sipped, determined to savour his unusual good fortune. An open and shut case wasn't something that fell into his lap every day. But, as Llewellyn's previous comment took insidious hold, doubts began to fill him, and he put the cup down again and stared pensively into space.
Although he knew Henry, the landlord by sight, when in uniform Rafferty had never needed to go into The Troubadour's bar. Henry was a big chap and could handle himself, in spite of his airy-fairy ways. He ran a well-ordered pub and there was rarely any trouble there.
Rafferty realised that Henry must have inherited his parents' photo gallery of their famous and not so famous patrons when they retired. Many pubs made a feature of such things, though Rafferty had reason to doubt the stars had patronised The George as frequently as the collection of pictures implied. He'd taken Angie there once or twice. She'd been keen to rub shoulders with TV personalities, and, anything for a quiet life, Rafferty had gi
ven in and taken her. The meal had cost an arm and a leg, but to Rafferty's relief and Angie's annoyance, the nights they'd gone, they'd not seen so much as a weather girl. She hadn't asked to be taken a third time.
He was amused to see Henry even had a photo of the Queen, taken during her Jubilee year, as the large silver, 1977 sign made clear. It had a centralised place of honour amongst the famous faces who had also supposedly patronised his parents' restaurant that year. Though Rafferty doubted that even Henry's parents expected to convince many that the Queen had really popped into their place for a leisurely prawn and steak dinner.
The Troubadour was busy, but the conversation died and the crowd parted as he and Llewellyn made their way to the bar. Conscious of the assessing stares, Rafferty wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted to find the glances dismissed him almost immediately before moving on to his immaculately groomed sergeant. But maybe he was wrongly assessing either of their supposed attractions, he told himself. Perhaps it was simply that The Troubadour's customers all had reason to recognise a policeman when they saw one, and that their more obvious interest in Llewellyn was simply because he was the most elegantly turned out copper they'd seen in a long while.
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