Death Line (11 page)

Llewellyn smiled his superior smile. “It's always possible you dialled the wrong number,” he pointed out. “It's easily done.”

Rafferty scowled. “Might have known it would be my fault. Why don't you give them a ring, Mr Know-all?”

Of course, Llewellyn got through on the first attempt, obtained the information that Mr Spenny, the partnership accountant was away on a late holiday and wouldn't be back till the following week and made an appointment for Rafferty to see him as soon as he came back.

With great restraint, Rafferty merely nodded an acknowledgement when Llewellyn told him this. Sitting forward in his chair, he said, “Let's see what we have to consider so far. Moon's office was broken into on the night of his murder. Could be a coincidence, could be someone trying to throw us off the scent. Of course, £1000 is a large enough sum to kill for, especially when you consider how many people nowadays get murdered for the sake of a few pence. But whatever happened, and aside from the oddities I mentioned earlier, there are four other things we must consider about that break-in.” He began to mark them off on his fingers. “One, if it happened before the murder, why did the intruder burgle an obviously occupied office? It could have been a drug addict, as I told Farley, but I doubt it. An addict would find easier pickings by mugging old ladies. Two, if Moon surprised him, why was the only injury to the back of his skull?”

“The intruder could have had a gun and forced Moon to turn around so he could hit him.”

“So why not hit him with the gun? Why bother to look around for another weapon?” Llewellyn's first objection satisfactorily disposed of, Rafferty went back to his counting. “Three, if the burglar didn't attack him, if he left Moon still alive, why didn't Moon report the break-in? And four, if the break-in happened after the murder, why on earth would any self-respecting burglar break in at all and risk getting involved in what was obviously a violent death? Moon was slumped directly in front of the window.”

“Don't forget, the blinds were drawn. Any burglar might only have seen the body when he had actually climbed in.”

“Okay, that's a fair point. But once he had, it strikes me he'd have climbed right out again, not gone rummaging through Moon's pockets and the desk for the key to the cashbox. If our burglar was that cool and hard-headed, he'd have gone for a more profitable line of work – armed bank robbery, for instance, rather than burgling an office on the off-chance of finding cash. No, I reckon we've got two separate people involved here. Two very different types.”

Rafferty twirled in his chair and gazed out at the rain. It was gusting sideways, as wind-whipped as the scurrying, forwards-leaning pedestrians. Depressed, he twirled back. “I wondered if Moon might have invited a pick-up back for the evening. They could have had a lovers' tiff. It would explain the murder and the trashing of the office. A possible pick-up could have been hoping to throw us off the scent.”

“But why should he invite a boyfriend back to the office at all? He had a perfectly comfortable home. Farley was away, so he would have the flat to himself. Besides, even though Lilley said he had found no file for this Henderson, it doesn't mean he wasn't a new client. Moon may have made an exception. And don't forget that Mrs Hadleigh said that Moon had called Henderson a client.”

“Moon wouldn't be likely to flaunt any sexual dalliances in front of his cleaner. What would be the point? And even if Farley was spending a few nights away, Moon couldn't be certain he wouldn't return unexpectedly. Besides,” Rafferty, keen to test their new understanding, suggested with a grin, “perhaps Moon liked his spare rumpy-pumpy under the stars? And with its star-spangled ceiling, that office of his would be perfect.” The summer heat wave endured with such reluctant stoicism by Rafferty who liked his weather comfortable, was now becoming quite a fond memory, and he commented, “You must admit, it's a bit parky for outside sexual shenanigans now.”

Llewellyn's light nod accepted both the argument and its presentation, and Rafferty was satisfied that Llewellyn was beginning to accept his black-tinged ways with humour. He didn't for a moment assume they had broken the back of their differing approaches, but at least they had made a start, and now, he tapped the photo-fit picture that Mrs Hadleigh had worked on with their expert. “Mind you, this Henderson bloke doesn't exactly look the ideal candidate for a bit of on the side naughties. A man as successful as Moon couldn't have been short of offers in that direction, so why settle for a down-at-heel near wrinkly?”

“I believe chronologically-challenged is the term currently in vogue, sir,” Llewellyn murmured.

Rafferty, who'd had enough of having his prejudices criticised for one day, responded sharply. “Don't start quoting the collected thoughts of the politically correct brigade at me, boyo. Your ancient Greeks are enough. Unlike the PC brigade, at least they understood that preaching at people is more likely to get their backs up than change their attitudes.”

“A little joke, sir, that's all,” said Llewellyn, his expression bland.

“Mm.” Rafferty, half-suspecting that Llewellyn was now teasing him, deemed it wiser to say nothing more on the subject. “Let's get this picture circulated. I want Henderson's likeness on the streets by this evening. I also want Moon's photographs circulated at the same time. It might throw something up. Send Hanks in on your way out. I want him to go and pay a visit to the partners' bank. If we can get the numbers of those stolen notes, we might be able to trace them. Come back when you've set things in motion, as I want us to go and see this Ginnie Campbell next and find out why she didn't come into work this morning. We'll take a chance that she's at home.”

There
was no answer at Ginnie Campbell's door. As they turned to walk back up the path, the door of the next terraced house opened and a neighbour stepped out in front of them.

“If you're looking for that Campbell woman, she's out.” Ginnie Campbell's neighbour was built on battle-tank lines and now she planted her solid, fluffy pink slippered feet more firmly on the shared path, blocking it as effectively as any armoured vehicle, and, managing to look marginally more threatening as she crossed meaty arms over her flowered pinny. Eyes as hard and dense as plum stones fixed avidly on them as she added, “I can give her a message, if you like.”

“Thanks for the offer, but we'll come back.” Without success, Rafferty attempted to edge past her on the narrow path, but as she didn't give an inch, he was forced to retreat.

“If you're looking for money, you'll be wasting your time,” she confided. “She's got tally-men and debt collectors on her doorstep morning and night, but few of them manage to catch her.” Her eyes darted from one to the other, and she speculated artfully, “You'll be the bailiffs, I suppose? They must be due about now.”

Rafferty took a quiet satisfaction in disappointing her. Still, with £1000 missing from Moon's office, it was certainly interesting to discover that Virginia Campbell's circumstances were so straitened. “We do need to see Mrs Campbell urgently,” he said. “Have you any idea when she'll be back, Mrs...?”

“Naseby. Mrs Naseby's my name. No, can't say I have.” She crossed her arms more firmly over her ample chest, dewlaps of mottled flesh on her upper arms wobbling, seemingly impervious to the chill wind that was steadily turning Llewellyn's ears bright red, and settled to gossip. “Comes and goes at all hours. Heard her drive back from God knows where before 8 o'clock this morning. Roared up in that car of hers with enough noise to wake the dead.” She sniffed. “Might be able to pay her rent if she stayed home occasionally.”

“How do you know she's behind with her rent?” Rafferty asked.

“I've got a friend who works in the landlord's offices, that's how. Three months' she owes them.” As a car pulled up at the kerb, her lips drew back in a spiteful smile and she told them, “You're in luck. That's her now. Though I wouldn't count on getting any money.”

The car was a sports model and although its registration plate revealed that it was only a year old, it had certainly been in the wars, as several large dents testified. Rafferty wondered how Ginnie Campbell could afford to pay for fancy cars when she couldn't afford the rent? But perhaps she couldn't, he mused, as the three of them watched her climb out of the car. Perhaps the car company featured among the debt collectors trying to catch up with her? No doubt Mrs Naseby would know.

Virginia Campbell was a statuesque redhead of about forty summers. Her carriage was proud and, as she approached, Mrs Naseby's lips thinned. The other woman's chin raised in response, her shoulders went back and her walk became more swayingly provocative. Dressed in a short, clinging and jewel-bright vermilion skirt, its satin sheen a defiant battle cry, Rafferty guessed, as the ample flesh of the crimplene chain-store-couturiered Mrs Naseby quivered with outrage, that she would have plenty of practise at out-facing the neighbours.

Sweeping them with a contemptuous glance, Ginnie Campbell asked, “What's this? A welcoming committee? Come to ask me to join the neighbourhood watch?”

Unthinkingly, Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn. Predictably, Mrs Naseby pounced.

“So, you've got the police on your tail, as well now, have you?” she demanded with gratified spite. After looking Ginnie Campbell and her short skirt up and down, she added, tartly, “Can't say I'm surprised.”

Ginnie Campbell poked the other woman sharply in her ample bosom with a vermilion painted forefinger, and rounded fiercely on her. “Just watch your tongue, you rancid old bat or I'll put the evil eye on you.” She held up her left hand and made a darting motion towards the neighbour's face.

Mrs Naseby went pale, her aggressive manner crumbled. She backed towards her front door, chased by Ginnie Campbell's derisive laughter, and slammed the door to behind her.

Rafferty was astonished to discover that the intimidating human tank should be as prone to superstitious fears as himself. As Ginnie Campbell's jeering laughter was abruptly cut off he reintroduced himself.

He'd barely finished when she snapped at him, “Thanks a lot. Did you have to let her know you're from the police? She'll have the entire street convinced I'm on the game now.” Turning away, she stalked up the path to her door and disappeared. Exchanging bemused glances, Rafferty and Llewellyn followed her. She had left the door ajar and, after giving a cursory knock, they walked up the hall.

She was in the living room. As they entered, she removed her high heels and flung them in the far corner before she slumped in an armchair and said, “Sit down, for God's sake. What do you want, anyway?”

After sitting on a shocking pink settee that was littered with discarded clothing, Rafferty told her the reason for their visit. Although her eyes widened and she stared at him open-mouthed, Rafferty got the impression that she had already known of Moon's death. There was no reason why she shouldn't, of course. His body had been discovered several hours ago; it was probable that, by now, news of his murder had spread like post-Christmas pine needles. But he wondered why – if she had already known about it – she should choose to pretend otherwise?

Gesturing for Llewellyn to take over the questioning, Rafferty studied her. Under the brave paint, her face had careworn lines that made her look every month of her forty years, and, as she bent her head, Rafferty noticed that the roots of her flame-red hair were liberally sprinkled with grey. He got the impression that her aggressive dress and manner camouflaged a woman at the end of her tether. It wasn't altogether surprisingly, of course. Not only was she in debt. She was also a divorcee, with dyed red hair, a voluptuous figure and a too proud manner; an ill-advised combination in a poor neighbourhood, where the men would eye her with hopeful lust and the women with fear and dislike.

Now, he interrupted Llewellyn's slow, but precise interviewing technique. “You told Sergeant Llewellyn that you had today and yesterday off work. Could you tell us where you spent the time? I gather you didn't attend Mr and Mrs Astell's little anniversary evening?”

The question seemed to amuse her. “God no. I spent all day yesterday out with my boyfriend. We went to the races at Newmarket. Got back to his place in St Mark's Road about 6.00 p m, and stayed in all evening. I came straight back this morning. About eight.”

Rafferty nodded. Ginnie Campbell's home, like St Mark's Road, was in the southern part of Elmhurst, certainly well away from Moon's High Street premises. “Not your cup of tea, I take it? This memorial do of the Astells'?”

“I wasn't invited, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. I believe in saving my admiration for live men, not dead ones. Jasper didn't get an invite either, but it's not as if he socialised with the Astells, anyway. Sarah Astell didn't approve of him any more than she does me, so that's hardly surprising.”

Llewellyn broke in. “Still, it seems odd that Mrs Moreno, an employee, should receive an invitation, when Mr Astell's business partner did not.”

“There's nothing odd about it,” she told him. “Sarah Astell invited her because "Highly-thought of" made it her business to fawn and flutter round her for some reason of her own.”

Llewellyn nodded. “I see. It didn't cause an atmosphere at work because Mrs Moreno was the only one invited?”

“I told you. I didn't want to go, anyway, and Jasper understood that Edwin could hardly invite him to his wife's ancestor-worshipping evening when his wife couldn't stand him.”

Rafferty was surprised that Mrs Astell's dislike of Moon should apparently be common knowledge. Though he wasn't particularly surprised that Astell should lie about it. His business partner had just been murdered. It was understandable that he should be at least as protective of his wife as he was of his clients. It would hardly be politic for the man to admit that his wife and his partner weren't exactly bosom buddies. Though, by now, Rafferty guessed he was already regretting his instinctive denial. “Were you aware that Mr Moon had a client with him yesterday evening?” he continued.