Absolute Poison (17 page)

Contrarily, he half-hoped for a negative reply; it would give him the excuse he needed to have a moan. After all, he reasoned, it was Llewellyn's peculiar combination of high morals, low vanity, and naiveté that had helped put him in his current fix. With anybody else, he could have just told them the suit was iffy and to get rid and that would be that. Not with Llewellyn, of course. With him, everything always turned out to be as complicated as one of Ma's knitting patterns. He wasn't surprised when Llewellyn even managed to frustrate his modest, if unreasonable, desire to find fault.

“Actually, we've turned up quite a number of grudge-holders,” Llewellyn loftily replied. “Though none with any connection with Watts And Cutley or Aimhursts—or, at least, none that we have so far been able to discover.”

“What? Not even a relief deliveryman or two?”

“You're not still yearning after a murdering milkman, are you, sir?” Llewellyn asked, raising his eyebrows and gazing at him in that superior schoolmasterly manner that made Rafferty feel even more irritated.

“No, not really.” He collapsed into his chair. In spite of his bad mood, bad head, and aching bones, Rafferty managed a grin. “But it has a certain poetic charm which I thought would appeal to you.”

“Indeed.” Llewellyn's po-face all but told him that he, for one, kept his poetical yearnings well away from his police work. “Apart from an irritating tendency to off-key whistling, our particular dairymen appear totally blameless.”

Rafferty nodded, sneezed loudly and slumped over his desk as Llewellyn continued.

“Lilley and I did think we'd got something earlier; a young man Barstaple sacked two firms ago who was known to have threatened him. This chap, Anderson, actually worked as a cleaner for Ross Arnold for a while and even did a couple of stints at Aimhurst And Son's offices not long before Mrs Flowers replaced him.”

Rafferty stopped rummaging around in his desk for painkillers long enough to ask, “So, what's come of it?”

“Nothing. This particular chap, Michael Anderson, hadn't turned up for work for several days—this is the best part of three months ago—and hasn't been seen since. We discovered he died in the midlands just after new year.”

Rafferty frowned. “You're sure it was him?” It wasn't that he doubted Llewellyn's findings; far from it, whatever else he might be the Welshman was a competent policeman. But he couldn't help asking. “There was a positive ID?”

Llewellyn nodded. “His landlord identified him. Besides, he had a record and the prints matched. There was no doubt about it, according to the midlands police who checked the matter out. It seems, from what they found in his room, that Anderson had become something of a drifter since Barstaple sacked him from his last proper job; there were bus tickets and store receipts from all over the country. It was the usual story, I gather; depression, self-neglect, self-abuse and death. But whatever else he might have been, he definitely wasn't Barstaple's murderer.” Llewellyn paused. “As for the other firms Barstaple worked for, so far we've not turned up any other possibles, but it's slow going and-”

Rafferty broke in. “Okay, I get the picture. Look, I didn't realize when I asked you to check out the employees of the firms that Barstaple freelanced for that there'd be quite so many of them. I suggest you let Lilley continue on his own.”

Llewellyn nodded. “By the way, remember you asked me to check with Birmingham about Mrs Flowers’ son? According to the officer who checked the matter out for me, nobody by the name of Flowers was admitted to any of Birmingham's hospitals in the last two weeks. No-one of that name had been admitted to any of the hospitals in the surrounding areas either. The difficulty is, of course, that her son might have a different name.”

Rafferty nodded. “I should think it's almost certain he has. Why should Dot Flowers be any different from the rest of Ross Arnold's workforce? Damn the man. Him and his illegals and dole-cheats are adding an unnecessary complication to this case.”

“Do you want me to put a trace out for Mrs Flowers? I should be able to get a good description from Mrs Collins and Ross Arnold.”

Rafferty agreed. “Get them down the station to work on a photofit. Do Mrs Chakraburty at the same time. At least we know what she looks like, so hers can be circulated immediately. We'll hold fire on circulating Mrs Flowers’ photo-fit, though. Birmingham could turn her up at any time and, if her son is in hospital, I don't want to cause her any unnecessary grief. Besides, first I want to check if she was really called Flowers. There can't be that many people with the name in the area.”

According
to DC Hanks, to whom Rafferty had allocated the job of checking, there were six Flowers in the phone book, and the same number on the electoral roll. Again, according to Hanks, none of them were dark, female or over sixty.

Rafferty was pondering his next move and forcing an Alka-Seltzer down his throat when Llewellyn returned with the news that the two photo-fits that Rafferty had requested had been organised.

“Better get the one of Mrs Flowers circulated as well now.” Rafferty advised Llewellyn of Hanks’ poor luck in connecting her with any of the locals of that name. Birmingham still had no answers. “Is Lilley in, do you know?”

“He's in the CID room working of those lists of Barstaple's previous firms.”

“Tell him I want to see him, will you? I want to find out how he's getting on.”

Unfortunately, Lilley, young and keen, was no more able to speed up the time-consuming checking for Barstaple's old enemies than Llewellyn had been.

Since setting himself up as an independent consultant, Barstaple had rarely stayed longer than three months with any one firm. This, of course, meant that the list of his possible enemies was long. It also meant that in between Barstaple rationalizing them in a previous job, and their possibly being taken on by Watts And Cutley or any of their subsidiaries, his would-be murderer could have married or changed their recognisability quotient in any number of ways.

Barstaple wouldn't necessarily recognise an old adversary in any event. If his killer was employed in the head office and made a point of keeping his head down only visiting Aimhursts after checking that Barstaple was absent, he might not have had the opportunity.

It wasn't even as if they could concentrate on those who had joined Watts And Cutley after Barstaple; it could be that his murderer had already been in post when he had been hired as their axe-wielding consultant. His hiring would undoubtedly bring with it a return of all the bitterness and resentment felt at the time of their rationalization at their old firm.

Watts And Cutley's business interests were extremely diverse and their employees ran into the thousands. Checking them all out for possible past links with Barstaple would take forever. It was one of the reasons Rafferty had pulled Llewellyn off the job and given it to Lilley. Along with the lists and the visitors’ book, he had given him the instruction to do the job as quickly as he could, but most of all, to be thorough. That was exactly what he was being, Rafferty discovered. If only it wasn't so painfully slow.

It
was Friday evening and Llewellyn returned from getting the circulation of Mrs Flower's photo-fit organised to learn that forensic had finished at Aimhurst's offices and things were back to normal. Or at least as normal as they could be after a murder.

Forensic had found little of interest. Admittedly, they had found fingerprints on the pot of hazelnut yoghurt in Barstaple's wastebin, but the only prints on it were those of the victim himself and his milkman. There were a few other, smudged ones, but they were insufficient to be of any value. Certainly, there were no matches with any of their more obvious suspects who had all been fingerprinted as a matter of course.

Llewellyn consulted his watch and remarked, “It seems an ideal opportunity to put Albert Smith's hearing to the test. The staff won't start back to work till Monday and the cleaners won't have arrived, so we'll be able to stage the test under the same quiet conditions that would have applied just before the time of Barstaple's death.”

Made wretched by the flu, Rafferty had forgotten all about this test, but now he rallied, stretched and stood up. “I wanted to have another word with Ada Collins, too, so we'll be able to kill two birds with one stone. Let's get over there.”

When Rafferty
and Llewellyn reached Aimhurst's offices it was about 5.45 pm. Rafferty had thought Albert Smith would be the only one there, but, as they walked up the side of the drive, having left the car on the road, he was surprised to see Marian Steadman through the reception window.

She and Smith appeared to be having an argument. Their dark heads were thrust forward either side of the reception desk, and their waving hands made the same emphatic gestures. This silent, apparently mimed argument looked curiously comical. They reminded Rafferty of a particular bonus television zappers conferred; the ability to play the more pompous politicians in reverse so they looked like marionettes gone mad. It never failed to give him a good belly laugh. In her heyday, Maggie Thatcher had been a favourite for this treatment; she hadn't seemed nearly so formidable when she'd been zapped backwards through the cathode ray tube.

Marian Steadman and Albert Smith were apparently so absorbed in their discussion that they didn't notice when Rafferty pressed the latest entry code on the number key by the front door and entered reception with Llewellyn just behind him.

They heard Marian Steadman say, “I know very well you've been avoiding me. You can't deny you must have-” She broke off as Smith threw her a warning glance. The pair sprang apart guiltily and two pairs of dark eyes fastened on Rafferty with matching expressions of dismay.

The two policemen exchanged bemused glances. What was that about? Rafferty wondered. The pair seemed—conspiratorial. It was the only word to describe their behaviour. Yet he couldn't imagine a more unlikely pair of conspirators. Marian Steadman's dark eyes were intelligent, warm, humorous. Smith's were none of these things; even his pepper and salt moustache had a downward cast as if it shared its owner's outlook on the world. Rafferty could only think Marian Steadman felt sorry for him.

Marian Steaman was the first to recover her poise. “Hello, Inspector,” she said. “You startled me.” She made no attempt to explain the argument, which, to Rafferty, either pushed her intelligence up a notch or confirmed her innocence of any misdeed. “I thought you'd finished examining the offices.”

“We have,” Rafferty confirmed. “Don't let us disturb you,” he added. They didn't take him up on his invitation. “We're just going upstairs for a minute.”

Marian Steadman buttoned her coat and said, “I was just going, anyway. See you Monday, Albert. Have a nice weekend.” She bid them adieu and disappeared.

Rafferty and Llewellyn rounded the bend and climbed the stairs to the first floor. They waited till, through the main office window, they saw Marian Steadman reach the forecourt entrance, turn right and head out of sight up the main road and then Llewellyn vanished into the gents’ toilet while Rafferty concealed himself behind the door of the open-plan office.

He had no difficulty hearing Llewellyn's shout for help. Neither, it appeared, did Albert Smith. He came racing up the stairs, two at a time and burst into the lavatory, displaying a zeal for assisting the police that Rafferty found commendable. He only hoped it continued when they questioned him.

“What's going on?” the security man demanded of the loitering Llewellyn when he found him apparently unharmed. “I thought someone was being murder-” He stopped abruptly. Then, belatedly realizing that there must be more to this than he understood, he tightened his lips and stared mulishly at Llewellyn.

Rafferty popped his head round the door and commented, “I see there's nothing wrong with your hearing, Mr Smith. Perhaps you can explain why you didn't hear Clive Barstaple shout for help? I think he must have shouted, don't you? More than once, too. He must have been in agony, unable to help himself and desperate. Surely you heard him?”

Rafferty's insistance that he must have done so made Smith surly and defensive. “Maybe he didn't shout at all,” he told them. “But even if he did, I didn't hear him. Got my rounds to do, haven't I? Must have done any shouting while I was at the other end of the building checking the place was secure.”

It was plausible, Rafferty had to concede. Smith must be smarter than he looked. He had certainly come up with a defence quickly enough.

“And what time, exactly, do you do your rounds, Mr Smith?” Llewellyn asked.

Smith paused a moment before answering. Probably doing some swift mental arithmetic was Rafferty's suspicious conclusion. “Around half-five or just after.”

“And how long would your rounds generally take?”

Smith shifted his feet and scowled, but he admitted to 15 minutes.

“Did you check in Barstaple's office at all?”

Smith apparently now felt brave enough to scoff at Llewellyn's question. “Of course not. I knew he was still there, didn't I? Wouldn't have thanked me if I'd disturbed him.”

“You know that for sure, do you, Mr Smith?” Llewellyn asked. “We understand Mr Barstaple had something of a reputation for being unpleasant. Had you had a run in with him at all?”

A brief shadow passed across Smith's features and was as quickly gone. “No. No need. I do my job properly. I've had no complaints.”