Death Line (17 page)

“In that case, I'd have thought they would have managed something rather better than a tale about art lessons. Ellen Hadleigh might be an unfortunate woman, but she didn't strike me as a stupid one. That tale is so improbable it could be the truth.”

Rafferty nodded gloomily. But he clung desperately to his hopes of an early conclusion to the case. “It could also be a clever double-bluff, though I doubt either of them are that smart. Still.” Rafferty executed a nifty turn that had Llewellyn sucking in a quick breath as he just missed hitting the pavement, and headed back the way they had come. “When we pick him up we can ask him to produce his etchings – and I'll want something a bit more impressive than a copy of that Sunflower picture you rave about. Looks as if it was dashed off in a spare half hour by a backward ten year old. And it's bloody ugly. I might be willing to believe Terry Hadleigh's turned artistic if he can produce some decent evidence. I'll even buy one for ma.”

Rafferty
heard his telephone ringing before he reached his office. He thrust the door open and snatched up the receiver.

“Appleby here, Joe.”

“Glad to find it's not only us poor detectives who work on a Sunday.”

“You know me, keen as mustard. I rang about those threads of fabric you found on the victim's desk. I thought I ought to let you know that they were from an expensive material. Cashmere, no less.”

“How long do you reckon they'd been there?”

“Not long, I'd guess. Whatever they came from was new fabric – it had never been washed or dry-cleaned. They were caught on the lower part of the desk, so, presumably came from a skirt or a pair of trousers. The black material was woven through with silver metal threads.”

“The glittery bits.” Rafferty nodded. “They'd be some fancy pants, and no mistake.”

“It takes all sorts. Anyway, we've subjected the fibres to a battery of tests; cross sectioning, micro-spectrophotometry – you name it, we've done it. We've got the fibre type, the dye composition and chemical behaviour. If you manage to find the material these threads come from, we'll be able to match them. Could be your murderer, Joe.”

Rafferty snorted. “And I'm the Queen of the May. They're probably just from the day-wear of one of Moon's more conservative rock star clients and nothing to do with the case at all.”

“Quite likely, as it's obviously a very upmarket fabric. If it's a help, there was no blood on them. We'll be giving them a few more tests, anyway. But, I thought I'd update you on what we've got so far.”

“Thanks AA. You'll let me know if you come up with anything further?”

“You bet.”

They
had an early night. They deserved it, Rafferty decided. Llewellyn rang Maureen and arranged to meet her. Unexpectedly, he asked Rafferty to join them. “We're going to The Red Lion in The High Street,” he told him.

“What?” Rafferty grinned. “The original teetotal Taffy in a pub? Don't tell me Maureen's finally persuaded you to abandon your youthful vow?”

“No.” Llewellyn's lips moved a fraction closer to his ears, so Rafferty knew he was smiling. “They serve coffee – cappuccino. Maureen introduced me to it.”

“Very nice, too. So what are we waiting for? Lead me on to this up-market oasis, MacDaff. With my open and shut case looking decidedly iffy, I'm in need of some consolation.”

When he got to the pub, Rafferty's earlier mood of high optimism slid even further away. Although Llewellyn and Maureen made strenuous efforts to include him in their conversation, keeping the discussion suitably low-brow for Rafferty's benefit, every so often it would veer off back to their more intellectual interests and he would feel out of it. He offered to buy the next round and escaped to the bar. While he waited at the counter, he glanced back at the intimate corner booth. Llewellyn's and Maureen's heads were bent close together over the table – probably taking the opportunity for a quick enthuse about some Greek or Latin know-all while he was at the bar, thought Rafferty morosely. Whatever they were discussing, they were so completely absorbed in it and each other, so natural, so right together and so obviously a twosome, that any third party trying to share their intimacy was bound to feel like the biggest, greenest and hairiest gooseberry on the bush. Or so Rafferty told himself. Only trouble was, it didn't stop the sudden, and totally unexpected tidal wave of jealousy that swamped him, leaving him empty of everything but a deep melancholic well of loneliness as the jealousy drained away.

Angry with himself, he tried to shrug the feeling off. So he was lonely. So what? he demanded, as he tried to catch the eye of the snail-paced barman. So were countless other people and they got by. Tonight, though, Llewellyn and Maureen's closeness had brought him face to face with his own loneliness, and the feeling refused to be shrugged off. Forced to face it and himself – the first serious confrontation since his wife's death had ended their disastrous marriage, nearly three years ago – he realised he had never experienced the closeness that Llewellyn and Maureen seemed to share – not with anyone; not with his wife, nor with any of the women with whom he had had a series of short relationships both before his marriage and since Angie's death. They had been little more than bodies that he had taken to ease a physical need.

He knew he was gaining a reputation at the station as something of a Jack the Lad. Mr Love 'Em and Leave 'Em, Mr Screw 'Em and Scarper. This sudden, unexpected insight made him realise that he no longer liked himself very much. I must be getting old, he thought, his face setting in grim lines as he admitted that he was tired of shallow relationships. What he wanted was some easy loving domesticity.

The admission momentarily unnerved him. Because, if his ma discovered his change of heart she was capable of renewing her matchmaking campaign. And that was the last thing he needed. His ma's idea of what constituted a good wife didn't match his own requirements; childbearing hips were definitely not amongst them. It was only his continuing lack of response that had convinced her she might as well stop parading nubile nuptial prospects for his selection like a madam at a brothel. No, he certainly didn't want her starting that up again. Rafferty was very fond of his ma, but she was a strong-willed woman and had as much staying power as a whalebone corset. If she were ever to guess he had done a
volte-face...

No, he had every intention of finding his own wife. Only, he realised, as he caught the barman's eye and finally got served, he'd better make a wiser selection of soul-mate than he'd managed last time. One unhappy marriage was bad enough, two didn't bear thinking about. He paid for the drinks and headed for the booth. Soon after, Rafferty made his excuses and left. He wasn't good company tonight, he told them, when they protested. And an old man of nearly thirty-eight needed his beauty sleep. They hardly noticed he'd gone.

Rafferty entered
the station the next morning deep in thought, and, until one of them hailed him, oblivious to the blur of faces clustered round the drinks machine.

“Too proud to talk to an old man? Joe?”

“Hawkeye. Sorry. I'm a bit preoccupied.” Harry "Hawkeye" Harrison had been Rafferty's immediate superior when he had joined the force; he had taught Rafferty a lot, and he had some fond memories of him. Now retired from the police force, Hawkeye worked as a security guard in a tailors in the shopping centre at Great Mannleigh, ten miles to the north. But he missed the camaraderie of the force and often popped in for a chat. “How's tricks?”

“So-so. Mind I reckon you'll have to start calling me "Bat-eye" soon. That damn security video screen plays havoc with the eyesight.” Whether it did or not, they were still bright with mischief as he asked, “Still single, Joe?”

Rafferty nodded, waiting, warily, for the usual teasing. But, for once, it didn't come. Instead, Hawkeye's next words highlighted a previously unconsidered advantage to his single state.

“Lucky bugger. At least you can call your wardrobe your own. Only last week my missus gave away my favourite tweed jacket to Oxfam. Then, she insisted on dragging me round the shops at Great Mannleigh for an hour and a half to get a new one before I started my shift. Saw that astrology chap, Astell, hunting through the rails. You'd think he'd be able to foretell when his wife's about to pull a similar stunt and give away his old penguin suit. Women! Stocking up their own wardrobes should be enough for them without poking about in ours.” With the ease of long practise, Hawkeye glided from small talk to the real reason for the visit. He gave Rafferty a shrewd glance, before asking, “So, how's the murder investigation going?”

Rafferty scowled. “You know that saying, "slowly, slowly catchee monkey"?” Harrison nodded. “That's how I'm playing it.”

“That bad, huh? Never mind.” Harrison sympathised. “If Long Pockets complains, you can always tell him you're not only saving the Force's face and fortune by avoiding a court case for wrongful arrest, but you're also preventing the unravelling of the woollen veil he's knitted over the public's eyes with his Politeness programme. What more does he want?” Hawkeye grinned. “He's not twigged the PIMP aspect yet, I take it?”

Rafferty shook his head. “If he had, you'd have heard his bellow all the way to Great Mannleigh.”

“True.” They both paused reflectively. Then Hawkeye said, “Shame about Jasper Moon. I rather liked him. He might have put his pecker in peculiar places, but his heart was in the right spot. Ever since I caught those young tearaways who'd been vandalising his street door he always gave a good Christmas bung to the Widows and Orphans fund.”

Rafferty frowned as yet another witness depicted Moon as aspiring to sainthood. What was it about the man? Their child-abuser seemed to be turning into a veritable
Father
Theresa. Liz Green's reports had been the same. According to her, Moon had been a favourite at the TV studios, he'd sorted out the love-life of the editor at one of the magazines he wrote for and steered the editor of another to a more suitable line of work. He'd even managed to avoid serious jealousy at the astrological society, which, given that it was apparently composed in the main of assorted old queens, must have been a major achievement. Rafferty had to admit that this case was giving his prejudices a severe hammering. Llewellyn would be pleased.

After further reminiscences, Hawkeye headed for the canteen to renew other old friendships. Rafferty went up to his office on the much less enjoyable exercise of continuing the murder investigation. He found Llewellyn already there, reading through the latest reports. “Hadleigh not turned up yet?”

Llewellyn shook his head, and Rafferty sighed. Until they found him he felt stymied. A major suspect in the investigation and the combined strength of The Met and Essex Forces couldn't lay their hands on him. “I want you to ring Moon and Astell's partnership solicitor,” he told Llewellyn. “Ask him about the Intestacy rules. We might as well investigate other avenues while we're waiting for the artistic Terry Hadleigh to turn up.”

Their investigations had revealed that, not only had none of the town's solicitors drawn up a Will for Moon, but neither had any of the solicitors working within a ten mile radius of Soho. Rafferty was beginning to wonder whether Moon might not have written his own Will. Although he had little knowledge of the law on such matters, he knew enough to realise that writing your own Will was a chancy business. Put one word out of place, or neglect to put another word in, and your estate could be distributed in a way you had never intended. Moon had been foolhardy if he had written his own Will, especially as, if it had ever existed, it now seemed to have disappeared. But if it had existed, Moon would surely have needed two witnesses to sign it and Rafferty made a mental note to ask amongst Moon's friends and acquaintances to see if any of them had witnessed such a document.

Llewellyn hung up the phone. And two minutes later, Rafferty learned that he had been wrong about the need for witnesses. It seemed that if Moon had written his Will in his own hand – a Holograph Will as the solicitor had termed it – it would still be legally valid with just Moon's signature. Rafferty consoled himself for this latest disappointment with the thought that, as they were having no more luck in finding the Will than they were in finding Terry Hadleigh, it hardly mattered. “Let's have the rest,” he said.

“There are strictly applied rules as to who can inherit and in which order when there is no Will. These are a bit complicated, but roughly, where there's no spouse, the estate passes to the surviving relatives in the following order; descendants such as children and grandchildren – legitimate and illegitimate, then parents, brothers, sisters and their descendants, then grandparents, uncles, aunts and their descendants; then great-uncles and great-aunts and their descendants, namely second cousins, second cousins once removed...”

“All right, all right, I think I've got the gist of it,” Rafferty broke in. He half suspected that, left to his own devices, Llewellyn would carry on all the way back through Adam and Eve and their descendants. “Moon had no relatives closer than second cousins. Presumably they get the lot?”

“They would have done, yes.”

“
Would
have done?”

“They may well still get it. Probably will. However, the Inheritance Act of 1975 widened the scope of those who can make a claim on an estate. That's what I meant when I said it was complicated. It would be up to the Courts.”