Absolute Poison (25 page)

“Ironic, isn't it?” he now asked. “That Mrs Pearson or Flowers, whatever you want to call her, should care so much what the neighbours thought when the current lot obviously couldn't give a damn if she lived over the brush with ten men. They barely remembered her first name, never mind anything else.”

“She didn't adopt it for their benefit,” Llewellyn told him. “She adopted it years ago when she and the late Mr Flowers first moved to Elmhurst. Of course, this was at a time when it was a stigma to live in sin. I suppose she felt that once she was known by the name by people in her neighbourhood, she could hardly change it back without drawing attention to her deception.”

Suddenly, the tiredness got to Rafferty. He felt drained. He wanted to go home. Doggedly, he insisted on hearing the rest of it. “I suppose she blamed Barstaple for her son's death?”

“Undoubtedly. Ever since he sacked him, Michael Anderson had gone downhill. He couldn't get another decent job, he became depressed, started taking drugs, sleeping rough, getting into trouble with the police. A frequent enough story these days. According to the reports, when he died of an overdose earlier this year it was the first his mother had heard of him for some weeks. It must have been a terrible shock to her.”

Rafferty nodded.

“I imagine her son must have mentioned that Barstaple was working at Aimhursts. You remember I told you that Michael Anderson had worked there for a short time as a cleaner?”

Rafferty nodded again.

“I suppose she started making her plans then,” Llewellyn continued. “Got herself taken on by Allways after her son's death.”

“So who swapped the yoghurt containers? No.” Rafferty held up his hand. “Don't tell me.” He was determined to come up with some answers on the case. “I think I can guess.” He hoped so, anyway. He needed to feel he'd made some contribution, however small. “Eric Penn, right?”

Llewellyn nodded. “That's my belief, though, of course, I have yet to question him. According to Ada Collins, who I have spoken to again, Mrs Flowers had taken him under her wing. She felt sorry for him. He must have been pleased she trusted him to do something for her. He must also have been bursting to tell someone about it. Only I suppose he was scared he'd get into trouble, so he said nothing. I imagine, for his own sake, she had impressed upon him that he had to keep quiet.”

Llewellyn went on to fill in further details of his triumph, but Rafferty was no longer listening; he was nursing his bruised pride.

It was the first time Llewellyn had beaten him to the solution of a murder investigation. He wasn't sure he liked it. In fact, he was damn sure he didn't.

You'll have to look to your laurels, Rafferty, my boy, he told himself. Instinct was the only thing he'd had over Llewellyn; now it looked as if Llewellyn was developing some instincts of his own.

Of course, he comforted himself, he'd been at a decided disadvantage in solving this murder, weighed down as he'd been—as he still was—with the iffy suit problem. Obviously, it had preoccupied him to such an extent that Llewellyn had been able to surge ahead in solving the case. Not only that, Rafferty now realized; he'd also taken over a large part of the initiative and Rafferty had just gone along with it. Still, it was hardly an omen of things to come, he assured himself. Nothing like it.

Llewellyn broke into his thoughts. “I'm surprised you didn't get there before me. You always have before.”

Although Llewellyn's tone betrayed the merest touch of that intellectual arrogance that had been much in evidence when they had worked on their first case together, Rafferty was sensitive to it. Indignant, he found himself on the brink of saying that he would have solved it if it hadn't been for that blasted suit. He stopped himself just in time.

Instead, he winked, gave Llewellyn what he fondly imagined was an enigmatic smile, and, after telling his stirring conscience to shut up, said, “Thought it was time you got there on your own, boyo. Why don't we just call it an early wedding present?”

Although
it seemed probable that Llewellyn's conclusions about the case had been correct, with the murderer herself dead before her victim they could never prove it conclusively. But, for his own satisfaction, Rafferty wanted to tie up the loose ends. He did so the next day.

Gallagher admitted he had been a suspect in the sixties murder, but insisted he had been framed. Rafferty was inclined to believe him. He even told him he could probably return to the States now as it was unlikely the police would reopen the case.

After being put in the picture, Eric Penn's mother got the truth from her son with little difficulty. As Llewellyn and Rafferty had guessed, Eric had swapped the containers in Barstaple's litter bin, first flushing the second container's contents down the sink. He'd done it because Dot Flowers had always been kind to him and it had made him feel important to be asked.

Rafferty also spoke to Albert Smith and Marian Steadman. He didn't want Smith to think he'd got away entirely with his wicked behaviour.

He found them both in Marian Steadman's home. After she had let him in he followed her into the comfortable living room where he'd dropped the twin packets of
in flagrante delicto
photos of Clive Barstaple on the coffee table, upending first one, then the other.

As the shots of Clive Barstaple in his bondage gear cascaded onto the wooden table Marian Steadman gasped and her face drained of colour. Her gaze flashed quickly towards her brother, then away again. Steadily, she met Rafferty's eyes. “I don't understand. Why are you showing us these?”

“Because whoever took them sent one lot to Alistair Plumley and the other to Alexander Smith, your great-uncle, as well as Clive Barstaple's. Bit of a coincidence that he should receive the same explicit, compromising pictures, don't you think?”

She said nothing.

“Mr Smith senior phoned me soon after he heard of Barstaple's murder. I went down to Devon to see him.” Rafferty gestured down at the lurid shots of Barstaple. “He had a good idea who had sent them, you see.” He glanced at Albert Smith's rigid back. “I think he was right.”

Marian Steadman turned to her brother. “Bertie? Is this true? Tell me.”

Albert Smith turned slowly at his sister's anguished voice as if reluctant to face her. “I don't know what he's talking about. Why would I take such pictures?”

“That's an easy one,” said Rafferty. “To discredit your cousin in your Uncle's eyes. To do likewise in Plumley's.”

Smith was, it seemed, determined to keep up the pretence right to the bitter end. “What would be the point?” he demanded. “I'm not even in the old man's will.”

“No, but you were hoping to be, weren't you? Once you'd brought your cousin's little peccadilloes to his attention you were sure you would shine by comparison.”

Smith glowered at him, but stayed silent.

His sister had a rather more sensible approach than sulks. “It's no good, Bertie. Can't you see you're doing yourself—and me—more harm than good?”

With ill grace, Albert Smith conceded that she was right. He smoothed his thinning dark hair self-consciously over his bald patch and faced Rafferty. “All right,” he admitted, “I did hope the old boy would put me back in his will. Why not? And he had a right to know the truth about Clive.”

He had the right to know the whole truth about both his great-nephews, thought Rafferty, but he hoped he never did. He felt sorry for the straight-as-a-die old man. How had blood lines that had produced a man like the General spawned such descendants as Barstaple and Smith?

Marian Steadman turned to Rafferty. “I want you to be clear on one thing, Inspector, that whatever else Bertie did, he didn't kill Clive.”

“That's right,” Smith chimed in. “And you'll never prove otherwise. All I wanted to do was to remove him from his post and from my great-uncle's will, nothing more. I swear I intended nothing more.”

You would say that, wouldn't you, thought Rafferty, as the words of another time, another place, another scandal came into his mind. He hadn't yet explained that they already knew the name of the killer. Dorothy Flowers/Pearson was safe in the next world and unlikely to reveal the truth of the matter. He was tempted to let this explanation wait. Then he glanced at Marian Steadman's anguished expression and knew she didn't deserve such treatment.

“You weren't technically guilty of his death,” he admitted to Smith, “although some would disagree. But no one would argue that morally you don't bear a heavy responsibility. It was a nice little bonus, wasn't it, to have him out of the running forever? You're surely not still trying to pretend you didn't hear his shouts for help?”

Although he admitted nothing, Smith had the grace to flush and lower his eyes.

“If you'd answered his cries you might have saved his life. But you didn't want that, did you? You wanted him dead. Only you didn't have the guts to do it yourself.”

Pale before, now Smith went the colour of tallow. He wouldn't meet either of their eyes, even when his sister said pleadingly, “Bertie? Did you…?” And received her answer in his silence.

“There was one other thing you could help us with, Mr Smith,” Rafferty told him. “If you would be so kind. It was you who took Barstaple's lap-top and rationalization report, wasn't it?”

Smith's mouth tightened. And when he made no reply, his sister spoke for him. “Yes, he did. That much he did tell me.” Her voice lowered as if to plead with Rafferty to understand. “Clive was already dead and Bertie saw the report on the desk and took it. along with the computer. He did it for me. Thought it would help me. Though how…“ Her gaze flickered hopelessly over to her brother and then back to Rafferty. “He thought he was helping me,” she insisted.

Rafferty nodded, giving Smith the benefit of the doubt over that at least.

All at once, Rafferty tired of the man, of his deliberate deafness, his cowardice, the way he tried to hide behind his sister's skirts.

“Don't make any travel plans, Mr Smith,” he warned as he turned on his heel and made for the door. “We may wish to charge you with other offences; like attempted blackmail and obstruction. Like sending obscene materials through the post.” Not to mention lack of common humanity, he added silently to himself as he let himself out.

Llewellyn and
Maureen's wedding day dawned clear, bright and sunny; a perfect spring day in fact, which, considering it was still only March, was a miracle. Doubly so, as not only autumn, but winter, too, had borne more than a passing resemblance to India's monsoon season.

Wryly, Rafferty shook his head as he pulled up outside the groom's flat and adjusted the buttonhole in his hastily-purchased new suit. Whoever had said that the sun shone on the righteous hadn't got it quite right, he thought. Now, if he'd said the sun shone on the self-righteous he'd have hit the bull dead centre.

He walked up Llewellyn's path and gave a fancy rat-tat-tat on his front door. When Llewellyn answered, Rafferty was surprised to see that his sergeant's face was a beautiful pea-green—thinking about his soon-to-be-mother-in-law, Rafferty surmised. The pea-green colouring didn't go with his elegant dove-grey wedding suit at all. But Rafferty had a remedy for that. He chivvied the bridegroom back inside and shut the door.

“What you want is a good strong coffee,” he decided, then paused, head on one side, hand reaching inside his jacket. “Unless I can tempt you to something more effective?”

Llewellyn shook his head.

“Come on, then. Let's get something other than bile into your stomach. Can't have you ruining the photographs. Have you eaten?”

“No. My stomach's too upset. I don't think I'll keep anything down.”

“Consider yourself lucky you're only likely to get married once then.” Rafferty wished post-mortems came round as infrequently. His stomach would be far happier, if so. He studied the bridegroom and prescribed some dry toast, holding up an admonishing finger as Llewellyn began to argue. “And before you start, remember I'm your best man and today there's no doubt that I'm in charge. For once, you'll do what you're told and like it.”

The toast and coffee were soon prepared and Rafferty carried them into Llewellyn's elegant minimalist living room. “Get that down you,” he ordered and watched as Llewellyn did what he was told.

While Llewellyn ate, Rafferty eyed him and the wedding suit speculatively. He had nearly managed to convince himself that if he could get through today without Superintendent Bradley finding out anything about the suit both their jobs would be safe. After all, he had more or less persuaded himself, Llewellyn would hardly wear such a quality suit for work.

This reassuring thought was immediately followed by another. Yes he would. He's not like you, Rafferty, with your Sunday best outfits that only get worn at weddings and funerals. Llewellyn liked to look like a bobby-dazzler every day. Leaving his best gear in the wardrobe for the greater part of the year wasn't his style at all.

Okay, Rafferty thought, so the iffy whistle was going to be given regular airings; he'd deal with that problem later. Meanwhile—as he forced himself to face the fact that not recognising a very sharp suit when he saw one wasn't Superintendant Bradley's style—he knew he had the here and now of today to sort out.

With the toast and coffee inside him, Llewellyn's pea-green colour faded. And, although he still seemed as tight as an overwound watch it somehow suited him. The drawn features looked as sharp as the iffy suit and Rafferty felt a twinge of regret.