Death Line (18 page)

Rafferty smothered a sigh as Llewellyn continued, his voice now taking on the dry, precise tones of Moon's solicitor. “"Any person – and this includes friends or relations – who immediately before the death of the deceased – was being maintained either wholly or partly by the deceased may apply to the Court. The Court can then make an order for a lump sum or periodical payments. And can also make a wide variety of other orders, for example for the transfer of the deceased's house to the applicant."”

Rafferty stared at him as the implication of Llewellyn's words sunk in. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying that if there was no Will, or if no Will is found Moon's boyfriend, Christian Farley, could apply for a lump sum under The Inheritance Act?”

Llewellyn nodded.

“But what are his chances of getting anything?”

Llewellyn shrugged. “The solicitor wasn't prepared to commit himself on that.”

“Typical,” Rafferty muttered.

“But the key word apparently, is whether the applicant was
maintained
by the deceased. And Farley was. Of course, the Court might still turn him down, but it would be worth his while to try. He didn't work, he had no income other than what Moon provided. I spoke to the local DSS earlier and he had never even applied for unemployment benefit or social security.”

“Why should he put himself to the bother of filling in all their wretched forms when he was living the life of Reilly at Moon's expense?” was Rafferty's terse comment. “If Moon left him nothing, it certainly makes it more likely that he should have destroyed any home-made Will. At least with the Courts, he had some hope of getting something. They'd been together for five years and he hadn't worked for a good chunk of that time.” Rafferty tugged thoughtfully at his chin. “But it all seems a bit too iffy for murder. Farley would surely want a more rock-solid guarantee that he'd get his hands on the loot before he killed Moon, jealousy or no jealousy. Friend Farley strikes me as having a definite eye for the main chance.”

He began to rummage through the forgotten reports on his desk, stiffening as he found one that had something positive to say. “Listen to this.” he said. “Witness rang in – anonymously, of course – aren't they always? to say they'd seen someone with a remarkable similarity to Farley on several occasions hanging around outside Moon's consulting rooms on the last couple of Thursday evenings before they flew to the States. Wonder if our anonymous informant is the blond bombshell in The Troubadour? Seems the sort of thing he'd try. Worth looking into, anyway,” he concluded. “I shall have another little word with the emotional Mr Farley.” He glanced despairingly down at the pile of reports yet to be gone through. “But not just yet. I'd better plough through these first. You know what the Super's like. If a man's not on top of the paperwork, he thinks he's not on top of the case. And if I don't get this lot digested, he's bound to ask about them. Besides,” he grinned weakly. “One of the station crawlers is bound to let him in on the PIMP joke soon. With an imminent eruption from Bradley on the cards, it's not a good idea to supply him with more fuel.” The phone rang, and muttering, “Hope this isn't Vesuvius,” he reached for the receiver. “Inspector Rafferty.”

“Inspector, my name's Rachel Hetherington.” Rafferty breathed a grateful sigh at the reprieve. “I work for Life and Leisure Insurance Company.” Rafferty was just about to say that, as a single man, he hardly had need of life insurance, when she continued. “I've read about the murder of Jasper Moon and I wondered if you might be interested to learn that we hold an insurance policy on his life. It's for a very large sum.”

Rafferty's heart skipped a beat. “That's very interesting, Ms Hetherington. Who's the beneficiary?”

“A chap called Christian Farley. Lives at the same address as the policyholder. Do you know him?”

“Oh yes. I know Mr Farley.” Rafferty thought quickly. “Could you let us have a copy of that Policy?”

“Certainly. I'll drop it around to the station. I only work round the corner.”

“That's very good of you. Many thanks.”

He hung up. “Did you get all that?” Llewellyn nodded. “She's going to drop a copy of this Policy into the station for us.”

“Is
that the Policy?” Llewellyn asked half an hour later.

Rafferty nodded. “Yes. And it's here in big dark letters that Hadleigh wasn't the only one with a motive for killing Moon. Christian Farley had several hundred thousand of them, all in Sterling. So, with what we've learned about Moon's insurance policy, Farley's jealousy and his possible spying activities, he's suddenly become even more interesting. I wonder if he was aware that he stood to gain a large sum in the event of Moon's death?” He paused. “Is Farley's friend still singing the same song?”

“Yes, for what it's worth, he still insists Farley was with him all evening. But WPC Green said he seemed high on something when she spoke to him again this morning. She had a much more revealing conversation than before. Said he seemed to have a grudge against the police. She got the impression he'd say anything to the Force, as long as it wasn't the truth. Not a terribly reliable witness.”

“So, if Farley's little friend tells lies to the police on principle, it's possible that he'd tell lies about Farley's whereabouts on the evening of the murder. Motive and a weak alibi. Better and better.” Rafferty digested this, then asked, “What about Mrs Ginnie Campbell? Did Lizzie Green turn up anything more on her?” Liz Green had already spoken to the boyfriend, and he had confirmed what Ginnie Campbell had said.

Llewellyn nodded. “When WPC Green went back this morning and spoke to his neighbours, they said she could easily have slipped out the back way without the boyfriend or themselves being any the wiser. The boyfriend is a drinker – drinks himself insensible regularly, apparently. They also told her that Mrs Campbell's car must have been parked elsewhere, as it wasn't outside the house.”

“So Ginnie Campbell's another one who could have slipped out without too much trouble. Has WPC Green typed up her latest reports?”

Llewellyn nodded. “She was finishing when I spoke to her.”

“Get her to bring them into me, will you? I want to read them before I speak to Ginnie Campbell and Farley again.” He never minded reading the pretty WPC's reports. They were always pleasantly brief.

Told
that they had a witness who had seen him hanging about outside Moon's offices on Thursday evenings just before their US trip, Christian Farley reacted with a self-pitying rage.

“Don't you understand I had to find out if anything was going on?” he demanded. “Jasper, even before he became rich and famous, could have had anyone. Do you think I didn't realise that? Ever since we've been together I've felt insecure, scared of losing him. And, as I became older and my looks faded, I became more and more frightened. How could I help it? I was jealous of all those beautiful people he mixes with. How could I expect to compete?”

Farley flung himself down on the black leather settee. “He'd started coming home late every Thursday evening. He told me he was working on his latest book, wanted to get it well along before the trip to the States, but he could do that just as easily on the computer here. Of course, he wasn't working on his book at all, as I discovered.” Farley's green eyes glittered with a peculiar malevolence. “He had that little tart, Terry Hadleigh up there with him. I saw them. Jasper was... Jasper was naked. I saw him through the curtains.” Farley's pink and white complexion took on a mottled hue, as if several strong emotions were battling within him. Self-pity won. “To think that after all this time, and all the beautiful people, it should be that cut-price whore who took Jasper away from me.”

Rafferty forbore from reminding him that, as Jasper Moon was dead, Hadleigh had gained nothing, whereas Farley himself was now a rich man. “Were you aware that Mr Moon had taken out a large insurance policy on his life, with you as the beneficiary?”

Farley paused before answering, as though debating whether lies or truth would best serve him. Then, his voice harsh, he admitted, “Yes, I knew. But I didn't kill Jasper to get my hands on it, if that's what you're implying. I wasn't anywhere near his office last Thursday. You just try to prove otherwise. I loved him, I tell you. The last thing I wanted to do was lose him. Without him, my life is empty.”

Empty – apart from all the lovely money that would now fill it, thought Rafferty cynically. If he'd already lost Moon's love he had nothing to lose by killing him and everything to gain – as long as he was confident of getting away with it. They left him then, with the warning that they would want to see him again.

“Right.” Rafferty consulted his watch. “I'm off to the accountants. I don't know what time I'll be back.”

Mr
Spenny, the accountant who dealt with the partnership books, was a thin, stooped man with a ruff of white hair, but his eyes were as sharp as those of any of Zurich's gnomes. He seemed to take as a personal slur on his professional abilities the suggestion that there might be something untoward in the accounts. He had already explained at length in his slow, rather prissy voice, that he had gone through the appointments book that Rafferty had dropped in for him, matching the appointments up with the invoices. Now, he proceeded to go through it all a second time, just in case Rafferty should have any doubts, explaining that the invoices all tallied with the appointments and the payments into the bank account tallied with the invoices. Ginnie Campbell was responsible for opening the post and entering the details of incoming payments and while the idea of collusion between her and Astell was a possibility, Rafferty considered it unlikely.

“What about withdrawals?” Rafferty asked when Mr Spenny finally paused for breath. “Have there been any unexplained amounts taken from the account?”

Mr Spenny drew his thin lips together. “No indeed. I've been through the bank statements as you requested. Apart from the cheque payments to creditors, nothing has gone out of the account but the usual amounts for petty cash, the wages and the partners' own monthly drawings. I can assure you, you're quite mistaken if you suspect any financial improprieties.”

After thanking Mr Spenny for his time and trouble, Rafferty walked slowly back to the station. He had a lot to think about.

“Seems
Edwin Astell hasn't had his hand in the till,” Rafferty told Llewellyn when he returned to the station. “So that's one of my theories gone the way of the dodo.” Gloomily, he wondered how many more would have a similar fate before he finally found Moon's murderer.

His hours at the accountants and the resultant fog in his brain had tired Rafferty out, and he decided to call it a day. Llewellyn was going to some late art gallery showing with Maureen. Rafferty was again invited, but this time he declined. He had had enough of playing gooseberry and art galleries weren't exactly his thing. Besides, he recalled with a grimace. Tonight he had a date. To escort his ma to Madam Crystal's.

The
doorbell gave a stentorian clamour. Startled, Rafferty dropped the hairdryer, and its hot blast scattered the papesr he had been doodling on earlier in the week. He glanced at the clock as he rushed to answer the door; he might have known his ma wouldn't wait for him to collect her. Any excuse for a nose into his love-life would do.

“Hello, son.” Kitty Rafferty's gaze wondered from his half-dried hair, past his shortie Chinese dragon dressing gown, to his large bare feet. “Can I come in?” she asked. “Or do you plan on entertaining the neighbours to a kung-foowi demonstration?”

“You're early,” he told her, as she shut the door. “I said I'd collect you.”

“I got her next door to drop me off on her way to her eldest girl's. I thought it best. You know how difficult you find it to get anywhere on time, and I didn't want to be late. Now we've time for a cup of tea. I hope you've got proper tea leaves as I told you, not your usual dust-bags,” she called as she made for the kitchen, “and then I can read your fortune.”

Rafferty, aware that his ma was capable of making use of his own groceries to poke about in his love life had made sure that any tea leaves had been consigned to the bin. He congratulated himself on his foresight and wondered how he would be able to prevent her bringing her own next time?

After he had finished drying his hair, he realised that neither the promised tea nor his ma had appeared, and concluded that she was taking the opportunity to have a snoop. Tying the knot of his belt tighter, he made for the door, only to meet his ma on her return. As he had suspected, she had a glow of satisfaction but no cups.

“What's the matter, Ma?” he enquired sarcastically. “Couldn't you find the kettle? It's not like you.”

“Mind your tongue, Joseph Aloysius. You're not too big for a slap on the legs.”

He grinned. “So where's the tea, then?”

“Sure and I've left it to brew,” she explained. “I know how strong you like it and those awful bags you buy take forever.” Deprived of a roundabout snooping route by the dearth of tea leaves, she was forced to make a frontal assault. “Done any entertaining lately, son?”

“When do I get the time to entertain, Ma?” he prevaricated. “You know I'm in the middle of a murder investigation.”

She sighed. “Dafyd doesn't seem to let his work interfere with his love-life.”

“That's because you've got his love-life under your personal supervision, Ma,' he reminded her dryly. 'He doesn't get a chance to neglect it.”