“Still,” Llewellyn commented. “I imagine many firms have to limit expenditure on such items.”
Marian Steadman laughed. “Not this one. You could say the Aimhurst Widget puts it in the position of the privatized utility companies with a captive market and little in the way of competition. Aimhursts has always been a profitable business. Why else do you think Watts And Cutley were interested?”
Her words confirmed what Hal Gallagher had already told them.
“But old Mr Aimhurst believed in sharing at least some of the profits with those who produced them and Watts And Cutley don't, as I'm sure you've discovered by now. That's why there'll be no Christmas treats for the staff, why poor Bob Harris spends his time tipping medicine down his throat, why we're all terrified of losing our jobs and why morale's at rock-bottom.
“Even Amy Glossop has her own reasons for being frightened about the future. Her mother's in a private nursing home,” she explained, “and it costs the earth to keep her there. I've met her.” The bleak expression in her warm brown eyes made it clear this had not been a pleasant experience. Her next words confirmed it. “Amy Glossop's mother is not a very nice woman. She led Amy a dog's life before their GP persuaded her to move into the home. Of course, Springvale Lodge is very expensive and even though I know Amy has a small private income, if she lost her job here she'd have no choice but to have her mother return home to live with her. Not a prospect to be relished, I assure you. Knowing that, I can understand why Amy behaved as she did. Lacking either beauty or brains I'd guess she concluded that currying favour with Clive Barstaple was the only option open to her.”
She sighed. “And much good it'll do her now. Though I doubt that Clive Barstaple would have recommended keeping her on in any case. Not once she'd served her purpose. She would have been regarded as expendable like most of the rest of us. She must have known that.”
When she had gone and made for the pub with her colleagues, Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn and commented, “No shortage of suspects, anyway, Daff. They certainly sound a desperate enough bunch.”
Llewellyn nodded. “And desperate men and women do desperate things.”
“Including murder.” Rafferty paused and thoughts of Superintendent Bradley prompted him to add, “Maybe the murder of Clive Barstaple will give the less compassionate bosses in this country pause for thought—of the “there but for the grace of God go I” variety.” He hoped so, anyway. With a bit of luck, too, it would give Superintendent Bradley an uneasy moment or two wondering if one of the underlings had laced his morning coffee with something richer than Jersey cream. That was another option, Rafferty comforted himself.. Always supposing he hadn't come up with a solution to the dodgy wedding suit dilemma before the wedding.
Back at the station, they began checking through the staff statements, comparing them to see if there were any discrepancies they had missed.
As they had already discovered, of the staff past and present, Linda Luscombe was the only one definitely out of the running. One down, nine-hundred and ninety-nine to go, mused Rafferty, as he thought of all the possible victims of Barstaple's past rationalizations, any one of whom, in the interim, might have got a job with Watts And Cutley or one of their subsidiaries.
But, for the moment, he concentrated on the staff at Aimhursts. And the last of the staff to leave the office yesterday evening had been Hal Gallagher and Marian Steadman, so either of them would have had the opportunity to switch the yoghurt cartons and remove Barstaple's lap-top, which, Amy Glossop had revealed, Barstaple had been using in his office on the day of his murder. So, too, would Albert Smith, the security guard. He had been alone in the premises from about 5.30 when Gallagher and Marian Steadman had left till the cleaners had arrived an hour later. Though, like the cleaners, Smith worked for another firm, so unless they discovered a past connection with Barstaple he would have no reason to wish him dead. But, as Llewellyn now pointed out, even if there was no past connection Smith wasn't entirely out of the running.
“He said he didn't see or hear Barstaple after the office staff left. Doesn't that strike you as odd?”
Rafferty stared at him. Slowly he nodded.
“Barstaple would have been feeling dreadfully ill. Even if he felt unable to leave the washroom to seek help, he could have still opened the door and shouted. The toilets are at the top of the stairs and the reception desk is only a few yards around the corner from the bottom of the stairs, so Smith must surely have heard him.”
“True.” Rafferty's lips tightened. “Perhaps, as soon as forensic have finished and the staff are back at work, we should organise a little test. See if Albert's hearing is up to par.”
Llewellyn nodded. “Albert Smith is also the first to arrive in the morning, so would have the opportunity to both poison the yoghurt and substitute the empty strawberry carton with the hazelnut flavour one in the waste bin, with no likelihood of anyone seeing him. And that, assuming the killer didn't supply their own pot of poisoned yoghurt as Dr Dally suggested, doesn't apply in regard to the other suspects.”
“True again. But,” Rafferty added, “where's the motive? Unless he was one of Barstaple's earlier rationalization victims I can't see why Smith would want to murder Barstaple. Like the cleaners, he's employed by outsiders. There again, I suppose Barstaple was capable of being as nasty to other people's staff as he was to his own. His cruel “moron” jibe at Eric Penn proves that.”
They worked their way steadily through the rest of the statements. As nothing else odd revealed itself, Rafferty transferred his attentions to the visitors’ book that Hal Gallagher had supplied.
There had been twenty outside callers to Aimhurst's offices since Friday morning when, according to Amy Glossop, Barstaple had brought a pack of six yoghurts into the office. So he had presumably either purchased them earlier that morning or on the previous evening.
Rafferty had got the station to contact the local office of the dairy that delivered to Aimhurst's offices. They had supplied the home telephone number of the milkman concerned. who had denied that Barstaple had purchased the yoghurt from him. If true, it confirmed what Albert Smith had already told them; that Jim, the milkman, never went into the offices and had certainly not done so in the last week or two.
And as Clive Barstaple started work a good hour and a half after the milkman made his delivery to the office, he would have been unable to give him an additional order verbally. On questioning the fact that the firm had a milk delivery when they already had a drinks machine, he had learned that Barstaple refused to drink the machine coffee. Surprisingly, he didn't expect the staff to, either. As long as the staff paid for the extra milk, he had made no objections to the order being increased. The usual milk order was the province of Hal Gallagher, who had charge of petty expenditure.
So, Barstaple had either ordered the yoghurts from his own milkman, if he had one—something which Lilley was supposed to be checking, or he had bought them with the rest of his groceries. He had despatched Lilley early to Barstaple's home, firstly, to have another hunt for the rationalization report that Barstaple had been working on and, secondly, after Sam Dally had completed the post-mortem and reported back, to hunt for any yoghurt receipt and catch the milkman on his rounds.
Rafferty checked his watch. It was now nearly 1.30 p m. Hopefully, Lilley would ring in soon and let him know if he'd found out anything.
As if on cue, his phone rang. It was Lilley.
“I've found out where Barstaple bought the yoghurt, guv,” he said. “He bought it off his own milkman on Friday morning.”
“And did he speak to the milkman or just leave a note.” Rafferty, by now convinced that Barstaple was the kind of man to make enemies wherever he went, prayed Lilley would confirm it had been the former. He didn't relish the investigation spreading over to the neighbours; if the milkman had left the yoghurt on Barstaple's doorstep, anyone would have had an opportunity to tamper with it.
“He not only spoke to the milkman, he too
k the milk and yoghurt straight from his hands,” Lilley confirmed to Rafferty's relief. “It was his usual day for paying the bill, you see.
“I've found out something else as well, guv.” Lilley paused. “The victim seems to have gone in for some odd sexual practises.”
Rafferty frowned. “What do you mean?”
Lilley explained. “I've found bondage gear at this home as well as articles of ladies’ underwear.”
“Maybe the underwear was left by old girlfriends,” Rafferty commented.
“I've also found some capsules of amyl nitrate.”
As Rafferty knew, amyl nitrate was used, along with controlled suffocation techniques, to heighten sexual pleasure. It was anybody's guess if Barstaple had gone in for his perversions alone or had had company, though, from reading the several cases in the press in recent years Rafferty recalled that the lonely men who got their sexual kicks from dicing with death usually did it alone.
It was a side to Clive Barstaple that Rafferty hadn't expected; the flash Porsche had inclined him to the automatic assumption that the dead man would have had a selection of flashy ladyfriends to go with the flashy car. His sexual harassment of Linda Luscombe had also inclined him to the view. But from what Lilley had found out that now seemed less likely.
He sighed. Wasn't it enough, he thought, that the wretched man had been a sadist at work without being a masochist at home as well? “What about that rationalization report he was supposed to be working on?” Rafferty asked. “Still no sign of it?”
“No.”
“Keep looking. And question the neighbours again. Hopefully one of them might know a bit more about Barstaple's love life than you've so far learned. I want to know about any lady friends, particularly any he'd recently upset. He seemed to have a gift for upsetting people.”
“He didn't have any girlfriends, guv,” Lilley insisted. “For the record, he doesn't appear to have had any men friends, either. His cleaning lady, a Mrs Waterman, arrived ten minutes ago. According to her, and she's worked for him since he moved here from north London three months ago, the victim never entertained. Or if he did, he certainly never left the evidence piled in the kitchen for her to clean up. There was only ever the one set of everything waiting for her when she arrived.”
“Speak to the neighbours again, anyway. Maybe it's just that he didn't believe in feeding any girl or boy friends.”
Lilley said he'd check again and Rafferty rang off.
Llewellyn had been called away whilst Rafferty was on the phone. Now he returned, carrying a number of sheets of paper, which he told Rafferty contained the names and addresses of the staff Barstaple had caused to be rationalized in the past.
With dismay, Rafferty noted that Llewellyn's paper collection looked formidable. Barstaple had evidently practised his rationalization skills for some very large businesses. And given that Albert Smith seemed to have waved everyone but complete strangers through with an utter lack of either formality or security, they'd all have to be checked out. It was possible that any one of them had a connection with Aimhursts or Watts And Cutley. He told Llewellyn what Lilley had discovered at the victim's home.
“Bondage gear, you say?” Llewellyn shook his head. “He must have been a very lonely and unhappy man.”
“Why do you say that?” Rafferty demanded. His sympathies were with the workers; bosses had never been his favourite people. Besides, as he told Llewellyn, if Barstaple had been so lonely and unhappy the remedy had been in his own hands, unlike his staff. A man who went out of his way to make others’ lives miserable must expect to be friendless.
A faint sigh escaped Llewellyn. “That's a rather simplistic view, if I may say so.”
“You have said so, and no ifs about it, ”Rafferty observed. “I suppose you've going to tell me he probably had a grim, emotionally deprived childhood with a mother who didn't love him and a father who beat him. I've no sympathy with such excuses for behaving like a bastard.“ Rafferty, whose opinions, moods, and sympathies were apt to change with the weather, conveniently forgot that during the course of their last case together, his own sympathies had swayed with every passing breeze.
“All I'm saying is that no one is all bad. If you dig deep enough you'll find a reason for his behaviour, which would at least explain if not excuse it.”
“Remind me to tell Sam to have another hunt around Barstaple's insides to see if he can't dig this reason up. Though I doubt he'll find anything more than he has already. The only reason he ground the staff into the dust was because he enjoyed it. No,” Rafferty corrected himself, “That's probably not the only reason. You heard Hal Gallagher—I bet if Barstaple managed to push the staff into either leaving or providing him with grounds for legitimate dismissal before the six months deadline, he was in for a nice, fat bonus.”
He slammed the visitors’ book shut. “Those are the reasons for his behaviour, Dafyd; natural-born nastiness and greed. God man, there are enough accounts in the papers of bosses of profitable concerns sacking workers or cutting their pay or perks while the bosses award themselves ever larger salary increases. Double standards and hypocrisy. No wonder the country's going to the dogs.”
As Llewellyn had the sense to keep quiet and not stoke him further, Rafferty finally ran out of steam. “Anyway, he added gruffly, “At least now we know when and where he bought the yoghurt. It's an advance. Can you get Birmingham nick to question Aimhurst's other cleaner? What's her name? Mrs Flowers. Might as well find out what, if anything, she can tell us”
Llewellyn nodded.
Rafferty glanced again at Llewellyn's bundle of paperwork. “And before we set to work checking the names on that great long list or in this,” he slapped the visitors’ book, “I suggest we speak to the boss of Allways Cleaning Services to get the backgrounds on the cleaners and see if we can't at least remove some more names from the suspect list.
“But, before we do that, I think it might pay us to have another chat with Amy Glossop. As Gallagher said, she's a noticing sort of woman. Maybe she noticed more than she's so far told us. I imagine we'll find her at home.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amy Glossop lived in one of five flats above the little parade of shops off Elmhurst High Street. Her flat, like the others in the row, had its entrance round the back of the shops, up a private alleyway. The alleyway was unlaid, it was still raining, and they squelched their way along to Amy Glossop's door which, inevitably, was the last in the row.
Her entrance was unexpectedly private, as a six foot brick wall separated her garden from her neighbour and another on the other side separated her from the side street.
Unlike the rest of the row, Amy Glossop's garden was well-cared for. Even though it was February, the mean little strip was far from bare and several glossy, easycare evergreens broke up the otherwise empty borders.
Rafferty noticed there was a large bare patch in one corner which didn't match the other three, each of which contained a sizeable evergreen. The planting was so symmetrical that the naked corner drew the eye and filled his mind with suspicion. Had Any Glossop torn out a rhododendron and destroyed it before the police had a chance to notice it? He confided his thoughts to Llewellyn.
The Welshman, busy scraping the mud off the high-gloss of his Italian leather shoes, merely commented that if a rhododendron had been planted there and she had removed it to conceal her guilt, it would be a simple matter to plant something in its place.
“In February?”
“It wouldn't matter if the replacement plant died,” Llewellyn pointed out. “To hide the gap, she could continue to replace it with something else till spring arrived. The fact that she hasn't indicates that she has nothing to hide.”
“Or that that's what she wants us to think.”
“I thought she was your star witness not your prime suspect.”
“I'm not so sure. I think Marian Steadman was right. Why would a man like Barstaple recommend that Amy Glossop be kept on the payroll when she had serve
d her purpose? The answer is that he wouldn't. He strikes me as the type to use people and discard them once he's sucked all the juice out of them. Amy Glossop must have suspected as much. After all, she's had the evidence of her own mother in front of her all her life. She seems cut from a similar mould to Barstaple.”
Trying to avoid the drips, they huddled under the narrow lintel over Amy Glossop's door as they waited for her to answer their knock. It occurred to Rafferty that he was about to do his damnedest to suck the remaining juice from the woman.
As he had anticipated, Amy Glossop was at home. And, as they followed her up the stairs from her front door to her flat, Rafferty found himself thinking further about what Marian Steadman had said concerning Amy Glossop's mother. Settled in a worn armchair in the living room, he experienced the feeling of pity that had eluded him earlier. It was obvious that money was tight; everything in the room was faded, shabby, crying out for replacement. There were cleaner, bare areas on the walls where pictures had been and the furniture had a rearranged air indicating that everything that could be sold had been sold. He could imagine every spare pound, every spare penny would be squirreled away so she could continue to keep her mother at Springvale Lodge.
“Not a very nice woman”, was how Marian Steadman had described Amy Glossop's mother. He guessed it was a description she would not bestow lightly. And as he studied a photograph of someone he assumed could only be Amy's mother, he felt she was right. If character showed up in the face, “not very nice” hardly covered it.
Simply put, the woman looked a monster. She must weigh at least 20 stone and, in shape and colour, her face resembled nothing so much as a pasty suet pudding. From somewhere above the middle of this heavy slab of a face two cold eyes gazed with animal slyness rather than true intelligence. She must have had her hair styled especially for the photo, he noted, because, incongruously, her light brown hair was a mass of candyfloss curls.
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