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*
ON THE WAY OUT, RAFFERTY stopped to read the words painted in white Gothic script on the smoky glass of The Psychic Store. "Personal consultations in Tarot, Astrology, Palmistry by internationally renowned reader, Jasper Moon. Make the fates work for you, not against you." Oh yeah? thought Rafferty. Since when were the fates open to argument, however persuasive? Like self-employed plumbers, the fates followed their own idiosyncratic course.
Between the consultancy and the store, they seemed to offer something for everyone; the latest New Age books, charms, crystals, oils, incenses - even gemstone amulets in agate, chalcedony, jade and so on, which possessed the power to attract "beneficial influences" such as good luck, healing and protection.
'Seems friend Moon failed to take advantage of the beneficial influences,' Rafferty observed. 'Maybe if he'd worn the jade, he wouldn't have ended up on his own consulting room floor with his head bashed in.’ Llewellyn made no comment and Rafferty went on, musing more-or-less to himself for want of any input from the pensive Welshman. 'He must have made someone madder than hell for them to just snatch up the victim's own crystal ball and brain him with it. No finesse, no cool planning, just angry emotion.' He mentioned his earlier thought that Moon might have used the information he acquired from his clients to further enrich himself. 'It would certainly explain the type of murder and the panicked attempt to make it look like the work of a burglar. Of course, it still doesn't explain why the box was locked.' He glanced at the still quiet Llewellyn, and said, 'Come on Dafyd, give your brains an airing. Think it's likely Jasper Moon was into blackmail?'
'I doubt it. Why would he put his lucrative professional career in jeopardy for the sake of a dangerous side-line?' Llewellyn's dark eyes were thoughtful. 'Still, he catered for those likely to have more to hide than most—rock stars, actresses and so on. If he was into blackmail, the famous would be the obvious target.'
Contrarily, now that Llewellyn seemed to be taking his blackmail angle more seriously, Rafferty changed his mind. 'I'm not so sure now I've thought about it. Let's face it, showbiz types tend to rattle their skeletons at the flash of a camera, on the principle that any publicity is good publicity. If you read a decent paper on a Sunday instead of those dreary highbrow ones, you'd know that. Every week sees them pouring their hearts out to the sex-obsessed Great British Sunday tabloids. Great stuff, it is. You don't know what you're missing.' Rafferty put on a falsetto voice. '"I long for my lost love child," cries sexy soap star; "I'm ashamed of my promiscuous past," confesses born again ex-porno queen, "Toy boys were my downfall" admits aging theatre dame.' He paused, lost the falsetto, and demanded, 'How likely is it that people like that would leave much for Moon - or anyone else - to rake over?'
Llewellyn shrugged absently, said, 'Not very, I suppose,' and lapsed into silence again.
Exasperated, Rafferty sighed, surprised to find he had been looking forward to thrashing out the pros and cons of the case with the intellectual Welshman. Not that he'd admit that to Llewellyn, of course. He confounded Rafferty's favourite theories enough now. God knew what heights of contradiction he'd achieve if encouraged. But Llewellyn's reluctance to enter into the spirit of the thing was frustrating. Rafferty knew what the trouble was, of course. The sooner they broke the bad news to Moon's boyfriend, the better. ‘No.’ Rafferty was pensive. 'I think we'll find this murder's an inside job. Have you ever known a burglar lock up a cashbox after helping himself to the stash? Even less to return the key to where he found it.' Llewellyn muttered something noncommittal. Rafferty gave up, turned and made for the car.
It was October. The weather wet and windy. Barely a month ago, they'd been roasting in a heat-wave, now, soggy leaves from the tree-lined High Street made the pavements treacherous. Rafferty leaned on the car roof, nodded back at The Psychic Store, and confided, 'Ma's into all this, you know. Astrology, palmistry, tea leaves, you name it, and she’s into it.' He grinned. 'I think she's hoping to see a tall, dark handsome wife for me.'
'I wouldn't have thought Mrs Rafferty would approve of such practises. Doesn't the Catholic Church frown on that sort of thing?'
Rafferty snorted. 'Course. They frown on most activities that don't involve kneeling and praying, making Catholic babies, or getting their hands on the dibs. But, on that sort of thing, Ma and the Pope have taken independent lines. And as she says, if Catholics didn't have some vices, the priests would have nothing to rant about from the pulpit. Doing them a favour really.
'My father now, he preferred to patronise the turf accountant. But he was generally sorry after. Great one for confessing, he was. A regular Mr Micawber.' He paused to see if this literary allusion had been noted, before he went on. 'Yes, a regular Mr Micawber. Only with him it wasn't the money he liked to balance out, it was the sins. Like the sensible Dubliner he was, he made sure he got the current week's sins cleared away at confession before he got started on the next lot. That way he could be certain he'd only have one week's sins to account for when he met his Maker. Balancing the heavenly books, he called it.'
'Sounds eminently practical, if a little blasphemous. I wonder in what light The Almighty would regard it?'
Rafferty shrugged. 'I don't reckon my old man ever considered that. For all the priest's efforts, I think he regarded God as some kind of superior bookie who would be too pleased to notch another short-odds soul up on the winners' board to quibble. He'd have died happy; he was well up on the odds at the time he fell off that scaffolding, as he'd only been to confession three days b-.' He broke off abruptly. 'Hell's bells. I've just remembered - I promised to take my ma to see a bloody clairvoyant next week. I wouldn't have agreed only she caught me at a weak moment. Isn't that just like a woman?'
'Weak moment?' Llewellyn echoed.
'All right, I was drunk. A pre-birthday celebration. Ma wants to get in contact with the old man. Gives me the creeps. I could do without the star man's murder at the same time.'
'Why does she want to contact him now?' Llewellyn asked. 'Surely, your father died many years ago?'
'He did. But one of his cronies was working abroad and has only just returned. Ma bumped into him last week. He told her that, for once, the old man had had a big win on the gee-gees. A month or two before he died, I gather. Apparently, it coincided with one of his periods of remorse. Anyway, to cut a long story short, this crony reckons the old man invested his winnings in some kind of insurance policy. Ma's been through the house like a dose of salts, turned the place upside down, searched through a lifetime's accumulation of papers, but she hasn't been able to find this policy. I told her that he either cashed it in five minutes after taking it out, or that it got left behind when we moved down here, but she won't have it. That's why she's going to this clairvoyant. She wants to ask dad what he's done with it.' Rafferty grinned. 'I wouldn't mind, but he never told her anything voluntarily when he was alive. I can't see him starting now.'
He was about to open the car door when he noticed an elderly woman arguing with Smales outside the front door of Constellation Consultants. As Rafferty approached, he heard him tell the woman firmly, 'I'm sorry, madam, but you can't go in. There's been a death on the premises and—'
The woman swayed slightly, clutched the constable's arm, and, in a shaky voice, asked, 'Do you know when? How?'
Rafferty interrupted her questioning. The woman hadn't asked who had been killed, he noticed. It certainly hadn't taken long for the news of Moon's murder to travel round the town. He was surprised they weren't already fighting off Fleet Street's hordes.
'This lady wants to get into Mr Moon's offices, sir,' Smales explained. 'I told her—'
Rafferty stopped him. 'It's all right, Smales, I'll deal with it.' He turned to the woman. 'The constable's right, madam. You can't go in there.' He couldn't help but wonder why she should want to. She hardly seemed the type to be interested in oils and incenses, never mind the other services they offered. For one thing, she didn't look as if she'd be able to afford them. She was cheaply dressed in a coat of man-made tweed-look fabric, and, to judge by her swollen feet and ankles, she would prefer Radox bath salts any day. Surely, she wasn't one of the consultancy's regulars?
After Rafferty had introduced himself and Llewellyn, he suggested they sit on one of the wooden benches that lined the semi-pedestrianized High Street. 'Did you know Jasper Moon well?' he asked her once they were seated. 'Only I noticed the news of his death seemed to upset you.'
'No. I couldn't say I knew Mr Moon well. Hardly at all, in fact. I always finish work before he comes in. I do the cleaning,' she explained, as she saw Rafferty's puzzlement.
'You're Mrs Hadleigh,' he exclaimed. 'It's lucky I bumped into you as I wanted a word.'
She clutched her shabby shopping bag to her bosom and asked defensively, 'Why? Why should you want to talk to me?'
Rafferty was gentle with her. The news of Moon's death had obviously shocked her. 'It wasn't a natural death, Mrs Hadleigh. It's usual to talk to anyone who knew the murder victim. There's really nothing for you to worry about. We can leave it till later today if you'd rather.'
This seemed to reassure her. She relaxed her grip on the bag and shook her head. 'No, no that's all right.' Hesitantly, she asked, 'Have you any idea who killed him?'
'It's early days yet,' he told her. 'But we're hopeful.' She gazed back at him, nodding, as if reassured by his confident words. He wished he was hopeful. He should at least have armed himself with a good luck agate amulet before coming out with such a rash statement.
'When will I be able to get in to clean?'
'It'll be a few days yet. But I understood from Mr Astell that you cleaned there last night. You weren't expected in this morning.'
'It's all right for Mr Astell to tell me not to come in. He's got a rich wife. I can't afford to lose two hours pay just because I had to go to the hospital yesterday.'
Rafferty nodded as though he found her explanation eminently reasonable. Yet he couldn't help wondering how she had expected to do her cleaning when, but for Moon's murder, the shop would now be open and clients arriving? Perhaps she had expected to be able to hoover round them? 'I believe you've only worked for the consultancy for a few weeks?'
She nodded. 'That's right. As I said, yesterday, I worked here from 5.00 p m to 7.00 p m. Then I went onto Mr and Mrs Astell's house to help clear up after their little do. He gave me a glass of sherry in honour of the occasion, though he probably wished he hadn't after.' She glanced at Rafferty in some embarrassment. 'I don't normally drink, you see, and I came over all dizzy. Of course, they keep the place terribly over-heated and I'd been on my feet all day. Anyway, Mr Astell ordered me a taxi and persuaded me to go home. And after he paid for the taxi, I could hardly expect him to pay me for the evening as well. That's why I thought I'd come and clean this morning, only, what with the hospital appointment and then working so late on top of my other jobs, it was a long, tiring day.'
She had yet to get over it, Rafferty thought, as her face seemed drawn, and her eyes had deep smudges under them. What a way to have to eke out a pension.
'Of course, this morning I overslept. That's why I'm so behind today,' she told him. 'I just rushed straight round here, and never gave a thought to the shop being open, or else I'd have left them till last.'
Rafferty nodded, glad to have one puzzle solved. Anxious not to alarm her, but conscious of the fact that she could have been the last person to see Moon alive, he asked casually, 'I gather Mr Moon was still working when you left the offices?' She nodded. 'Was he alone, do you know?'
She didn't answer immediately. Rafferty was about to repeat the question when she said, 'Sorry. It's been such a shock. Mr Moon was in his office when I left. But he wasn't alone.' She paused and added quietly, 'He had a client with him.'
Rafferty's sharp demand of, 'A client? Are you sure?' made her jump. Quickly, he apologised. But it was their first lead and to get it so early in the case was more than he had hoped for. She confirmed it. Trying to control the excitement in his voice, Rafferty asked, 'Do you know this client's name, Mrs Hadleigh?'
She hesitated, bit her lip and gazed across the road as if seeking inspiration. Rafferty's hopes began to subside. But then, she told him firmly, 'Mr Moon called him Mr Henderson.'
'Did you see him at all, Mrs Hadleigh?' Llewellyn questioned. She nodded, and Rafferty began to get excited again. 'A description would be useful,' the Welshman prompted.
A faint flush coloured her cheeks as, haltingly, she told him, 'He was about fifty, I'd say, with thinning grey hair. Quite a stocky build. His clothes were shabby, so I'm surprised he could afford Mr Moon's fees. He seemed nervous. He almost dropped the tea Mr Moon asked me to make for them.'
Rafferty was astonished that she had been so observant. Most people barely noticed what day it was, never mind anything else. Still, it was fortunate for them that she had. 'These cups—I gather you washed them up?' There had been none on the desk or in the sink.
She nodded. 'Washed, dried and put away. Mr Astell's always very firm about the place looking clean and tidy.' She shivered, as a cold wind whistled along the High Street. It lifted the previous night's litter and whirled it in a fitful dance about their ankles. Someone had discarded a blue and red striped umbrella in the gutter. The material fluttered in the wind as though trying to rise - its spine broken if not its spirit, thought Rafferty whimsically as he watched it - only to sink back again after each abortive effort. Then, the wind dropped, the umbrella accepted its fate and lay still. Rafferty made a mental note to tell the SOCO's to pick it up, just in case it had any connection with the case.
Mrs Hadleigh shivered again, and Rafferty took her arm. 'It's too chilly here to chat. Could you come to the station and help our Photo-fit expert construct a picture of this client? What you've told us is very important. Apart from the murderer, this Mr Henderson may have been the last person to see Mr Moon alive.'
She hesitated again, and then gave an anxious little nod. Rafferty guessed she was concerned about being late for the next cleaning job of the morning and he reassured her. 'I'm sure it won't take long.' He helped her up and led her over to the car. 'I'll arrange for a car to take you home - or wherever else you need to go - afterwards. Llewellyn.' He tossed the car keys to the Welshman. 'You can drive.' Rafferty only hoped it would help take his mind off their next appointment.
***
AS SOON AS THEY HAD deposited Mrs Hadleigh with the Photo-fit man, and Rafferty had uttered further assurances, they left them to it. There was too much work ahead of them to spare any of it holding a witness's hand. 'Right,' he said. 'Let's get on with it. I want you to send WPC Green along to the local Astrological Society. Astell said he and Moon were both members. I also want her to go to the TV Studios where Moon did his morning show. Tell her to ask around and see what she can find out. About Moon, Astell, the rest of the staff and the set up there.' Liz Green was good with people, Rafferty knew. Had a way of drawing them out - just like Moon. 'Get someone to contact the editors of the magazines he supplied with astrological forecasts. He'd worked for several of them for some time - might learn something interesting.' He paused, thinking. 'Oh and get Moon's phone checked out. I want to know what numbers were called on it. Come back when you've got all that organised, and we'll go and see the boyfriend.'
***
RAFFERTY COULD ALMOST believe that the wind, which had seemed to quieten while they were in the station, had waited for them to re-emerge onto the street, before reasserting itself. Its icy breath was bitter and shrieked painfully in his ears. He tugged his coat collar as high over his ears as it would reach and put up with it. It was only a short walk to Moon's home in Quaker Street, not worth a car ride. Moon's flat was in the old Dutch quarter of town, a chic, expensive area, which confirmed that star gazing was a profitable line.
The man who opened the door to their knock was fat, fair and fiftyish. Rafferty was surprised. He had expected a much younger man; the equivalent of the bimbo that successful heterosexual males liked to hang from their arm. 'Mr Farley?' Rafferty queried.
He nodded and gave them a hesitant, questioning smile that didn't reach his eyes, which were a flat green colour and reminded Rafferty of those of a snake. They slid rapidly from Rafferty to Llewellyn and back again before he asked politely, 'What can I do for you?'
Farley's voice was well-modulated, though Rafferty got the impression it was practised rather than natural. Rafferty showed him his warrant card and introduced himself and Llewellyn. 'Perhaps we might come in?' Rafferty suggested. 'I'm afraid we have some bad news for you.'
Farley stared at him. His skin flushed and then the colour receded, leaving two stark pink blotches high up on his cheeks. Surprisingly elegant fingers clutched at each other as he exclaimed, 'Oh, God, something's happened to Jasper, hasn't it?' Anxiety had made his voice curiously high-pitched, and now it became even higher. 'Tell me, tell me, for the love of God. Has something happened to Jasper?'
Rafferty, mindful of Astell's warning, suggested again, more firmly, 'If we could just come in?'
Farley remained planted in the doorway, his expression uncertain, then he stood back to let them in, carefully shutting the door behind them before he clutched Rafferty's arm. 'Tell me. Please. What's happened?'
Resisting the impulse to throw off the clinging hand, Rafferty steered him towards what he hoped was the living room. It was a spacious flat, as colourful as Moon's office had been, but without the solar system decor. 'I think you should sit down, Mr Farley.' He waited till Farley had perched on the edge of a stark black leather settee before he sat down in the armchair opposite. 'I'm afraid Mr Moon is dead. He...'
Christian Farley's hands flew to his face and he stared at them over his fingers, shaking his head all the while. His shock seemed genuine, Rafferty noted. What he could see of his fair-skinned face was pasty. Small fists now pressed against his mouth, Farley moaned, rocking to and fro on the leather settee. It creaked protestingly with each movement.
Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn for moral support. As expected, the Welshman avoided his eye and stared determinedly over Farley's head. Rafferty struggled on, silently cursing Llewellyn and wishing he'd brought a WPC with him. 'I'm afraid it's true, sir. He was found dead in his office this morning by his business partner.' He paused to gather strength and then said quickly, 'I have to tell you that he was murdered.'
Farley's hands came away from his face. His mouth fell open, and silently, he repeated Rafferty's last word, before he recommenced his rocking, his movements accompanied by the off-key complaints of the settee. Rafferty, at a loss, instinctively followed his ma's usual response in a crisis, and ordered Llewellyn to find the kitchen and make tea. With an alacrity to obey his orders that - under other circumstances, would have been gratifying - Llewellyn went. He was gone some time, and if Rafferty hadn't known better, he would have suspected he was hunting for a bottle of Dutch courage.
By the time Llewellyn returned with the tea Farley had quietened. He sat huddled in the middle of the big settee, looking lost, making no response to Rafferty's awkward sympathetic overtures. Llewellyn gave Farley's shoulder a tentative pat, put the tea on the table in front of him, and retreated to the far side of the room. Rafferty, who had confidently predicted tears, noted that Farley's eyes were dry. They appeared puzzled, his forehead faintly creased, as if he was thinking through what he had learned. He turned questioning eyes to Rafferty. 'You said Jasper was murdered. Have you any idea who by?'
Rafferty shook his head. 'Not yet. It's possible Mr Moon disturbed a burglar, as his office was broken into.'
Farley exclaimed, 'Not again!'
'I'm sorry?'
'We were burgled here earlier this year. While we were on one of Jas, Jasper's regular trips to The States. And now you say Jasper's office was broken into and Jasper murdered.' He worried at his bottom lip. 'And I thought...' He broke off. 'It's almost as if someone has a grudge against us.' The possibility, not unnaturally, seemed to unnerve him. As he picked up his tea, the cup, rattled against the saucer, betraying his agitation.
Rafferty had never liked coincidences. And although there had been a spate of burglaries in the town in recent months, he felt that this coincidence might be of more significance than most. 'What was taken from the flat, sir?'
Farley glanced up with a start. 'Very little, that's what was so surprising. They even left the video and the TV. Jasper's study desk and both our bedrooms had been gone through, but, apart from some jewellery, nothing else of value was taken. What was taken from Jasper's office?'
'A sum of money.'
Farley's gaze narrowed. His green eyes accentuated by the daylight that streamed in at the windows looked more snakelike than ever, as he asked, 'How much?'
'Mr Moon's business partner says £1000.'
Farley digested the information silently for a few seconds. 'But, surely...?'
'Yes, sir,' Rafferty encouraged. 'You were saying?'
'Nothing.' Farley glanced quickly at him before shaking his head. 'It doesn't matter.' He lapsed into silence, but he couldn't seem to help himself, and burst out, 'It's just that it seems odd. If Jasper was working, the lights would be on. At least—’ He broke off again, before asking hesitantly, 'Were they on?' Rafferty nodded, and Farley sat back, his eyes calculating. 'Would a burglar break in under such circumstances?'
Unwilling to share his suspicions concerning the burglary with Farley, Rafferty gave him the line he had prepared earlier. 'I'm afraid the modern criminal often doesn't care if premises are occupied, sir. Could be a drug addict, desperate enough for money not to bother with the usual precautions. But, at this stage, I'm keeping an open mind.' As he said this, he became conscious of Llewellyn. He was standing, his gaze now fixed on the floor, but Rafferty sensed the thought waves emanating from him. Keeping an open mind? they commented ironically. That must be a first.
After projecting a few strongly-worded thought waves of his own in return, Rafferty concentrated his attention on Farley. 'You said you wondered if someone bore Mr Moon a grudge. Do you know if he had any enemies? Someone who had threatened him, perhaps?'
Farley shook his head. 'None that I know of. But Jasper was very successful, and success always breeds envy, particularly in this country. I'm afraid the British have always found failure a more attractive trait.'
Rafferty had thought he had detected a slight accent. 'I take it you're not British, Mr Farley?'
'No. I'm from South Africa. The Cape. But I've lived here for more than twenty years.'
'I understand you've known Mr Moon for five years?'
Farley gave a twisted smile, as though he found Rafferty's biblical phraseology amusing. 'Yes, it would have been five years on the 18th of next month. Our Wooden Anniversary. I was going to get Jasper a small carved sculpture of our sun signs, intertwined. Like a lovers' knot, you know?' The thought clearly upset him, for now his eyes held the hint of moisture that thus far had been missing. Turning away, he blew his nose with a feminine neatness.
Rafferty shifted uncomfortably, as the thought struck him that, in Farley's eyes, if not society's, he had been widowed; widowed, moreover, without any of the support a legal widow might expect. He opened his mouth to say something sympathetic, but, realising that anything he said would sound, to Farley, either patronising, trite or insincere, he gave up and waited for Farley to get control of himself, then gently resumed the questioning. 'I gather you and Mr Moon lived here together?' Farley nodded. 'You must have been concerned when he didn't come home last night.'
'I wasn't here.' He seemed to feel he had to defend himself. 'I was visiting a-a friend for a day or two. I only got back this morning. Naturally, I assumed Jasper had gone to work. Of course, if I'd looked in his bedroom, I'd have seen his bed hadn't been slept in.'
So, they slept apart. Rafferty wondered if that was usual in their circumstances. Or whether, like ordinary married couples who chose to sleep separately, it hinted that their relationship had cooled? Had they had an argument? Was that why Farley had gone to see this friend and why the tears had been so long in coming and so sparse? Yet, Farley had been planning to buy Moon an expensive anniversary gift, a gift that showed thought and care, albeit presumably bought with Moon's money. 'I'm afraid I'll have to ask you for the name and address of this friend, Mr Farley.'
As he realised the significance of the question, Farley's face flushed, and he opened his mouth as if to protest. But then, presumably thinking better of remonstrating, he told them, 'His name's Turner, Andrew Turner.' He added the address.
'I don't like to ask this Mr Farley, but as Mr Moon's been murdered, it will be necessary for us to look through his things to see if we can find anything that might help our investigations.'
Farley frowned. 'What sort of thing?'
'It's hard to say. Could be a letter, or a diary. Anything that might help us discover if anyone did have a grudge against him. Where would he be likely to keep such things?'
'In his bedroom or study, I imagine.'
The study was small, no more than twelve feet square. Rafferty guessed this was where Moon had given consultations for intimates. Apart from a computer of the same make as the one in Moon's office, it contained similar books, works by past, presumably revered practitioners of their art; a chap called Cheiro seemed to feature prominently, Rafferty noticed. As soon as Farley left, they began their search in earnest.
Moon was a hoarder. They found piles of circulars, newspaper cuttings featuring the dead man, as well as a yellowing reminder from The Blood Donor Centre to somebody called Hedges.
'Hedges,' Rafferty murmured, as he showed the reminder to Llewellyn. 'Reckon that was Moon's real name?'
'Possibly. It shouldn't be difficult to find out. Farley must know.'
Rafferty nodded and put the letter in his pocket. Eager to shake off the feelings of inadequacy he had felt in Farley's presence, he joked, 'Reminds me of one of the old Hancock's Half Hour series on the telly. The one about the blood donor. Do you remember the bit where he says to the doctor—?'
'I rarely watch television,' Llewellyn interrupted. 'But I think that was before my time, anyway.'
Reminded that another birthday was looming, Rafferty said tartly, 'It's available on DVDF. You should get it. Tony Hancock might be dead, but then, so are those ancient Greeks you're so fond of quoting, and at least he's a damn sight more entertaining.' Disgruntled, he carried on with the search.
In one of the desk drawers, he found a stack of autographed photographs of Moon. His signature was written with such an exuberant flourish that Rafferty's lip curled. 'Jasper Moon,' he snorted. 'What sort of a name is that, anyway?'
'Mr Astell said it was originally the victim's professional name. But I gather he legally adopted it as his own years ago.'
'What did he want with a professional name?' Rafferty scoffed. 'The man was nothing more than a glorified end of pier charlatan.'
'Your prejudices are showing, sir,' Llewellyn remarked laconically. 'Have you forgotten the superintendent's politeness programme? I suspect that when he finally realises the descriptive qualities of that acronym with which you provided him, like Shylock, he'll be satisfied with nothing less than his pound of flesh. Your flesh. If you don't want to supply him with an extra knife, it might be wise to keep such opinions to yourself.'
Rafferty knew he was right. It had been idiotic of him to give into the impulse when Bradley had asked for suggestions. But he had a perverse, anti-authority streak, which he guessed stemmed from his schooldays. Ironic, really, that he had fallen, or been pushed, into the police force, the most authoritarian career of them all. The trouble was that the pompous Bradley brought this perverse streak out in spades. At least, this time, his imprudence had provided him with ample amusement, he reflected, even if Bradley did cut him into collops for his trouble. 'I'll be careful, don't worry. Anyway, if he doesn't like being considered a pimp, he shouldn't act like one.'
Llewellyn shrugged, as much as to say, don’t say I didn't warn you, before adding, 'It'll probably amuse you to know that Moon chose the name Jasper because he thought it singularly appropriate to his skills. It means "Treasure Master", the treasure, in this case, presumably being knowledge.'
Rafferty's lips turned down. 'It seems to me his greatest talent was for acquiring booty. Look around you,' he invited, as he pointed out the expensive knick-knacks scattered around the room. 'This place is more like Blackbeard's den than a study.' He stuffed Moon's stack of photographs in his jacket pocket. At least they'd come in handy for the house to house enquiries.
They turned up the dead man's passport. As expected, it was in the name of Moon. There was no sign of a Will or a birth certificate. Probably sprang to life from under a moonbeam, thought Rafferty sourly. His rummaging dislodged yet another photograph, this time a dog-eared black and white snapshot featuring a smiling, gummy-mouthed infant, which Rafferty thrust the back in the drawer. 'Let's take a look in the bedroom.'
The bedroom contained a television and video, with a stack of popular film tapes stored underneath. Surprisingly, he found a single tape in Moon's wardrobe. It was right at the back of the top shelf, stashed behind some shoe boxes. It looked different from the rest. It was in a plain, but distinctive emerald green video case with an advertising sticker from a firm called Memory Lane Videos, who specialised in transferring old cine film to video.
Curious to discover why anyone should attempt to conceal one tape, Rafferty switched on the TV and video and inserted it. 'If we're to catch the killer, we'd better try to learn something more of the victim,' he commented, as he sat on the edge of the bed. 'Perhaps this will tell us something useful?'
From the name on the box, he had expected some footage from Moon's youth, but as the film started to roll and he realised that the film didn't contain happy family memorabilia at all, his stomach muscles tightened in embarrassment. It was one of those terribly arty, sensitive films about homosexual love. Amateurishly done, it had a dated look. The two naked young men caressing each other under the trees sported short back and side’s haircuts. One had the kind of profile that belonged on Roman coins; the other seemed as keen on making love to the camera lens as to his companion. Rafferty was disconcerted when the Narcissus on the grass stared unselfconsciously back at him, and he dropped his gaze. Neither of them was Moon, who, anyway, could have been no more than eight or ten years old at the time.
The car visible through the shrubbery also had a dated look. It was parked in front of a large country house, the edge of which was just visible in the film and provided a backdrop for the embracing figures.
'Isn't that an old Wolseley?' Rafferty mumbled idiotically, unwilling to turn the film off and reveal how embarrassed it made him feel.
'A Wolseley 14/56.' Llewellyn, the car buff, quietly confirmed it.
Constrained by his awareness of Llewellyn's strongly moralistic upbringing, Rafferty felt unable to ease his embarrassment by making the kind of coarse crack he might have made with anyone else. Llewellyn tended to have the effect of making you feel cheapened by your own prejudices, and Rafferty reflected that the Jesuits had hit the nail on the head when they had roundly declared, "Give me a child to the age of seven and I will give you the man". Because with Llewellyn, neither public school, nor university, nor the police force, had made any deep dents in that ingrained sense of right and wrong, that high-minded morality that was so out of step with the modern world and its easy option attitudes. It was rare to meet and uncomfortable for the more morally lax of his colleagues, among whom Rafferty, in a periodic burst of introspective self-knowledge, had certainly included himself. As they had got to know one another on a deeper level, he had discovered that, instead of the expected censure, Llewellyn often displayed a deep compassion for the failings of weaker-minded mortals. He did so now.
'Sad, isn't it,' he remarked, 'that young men should have so little self-respect that they should allow their bodies to be used for others' entertainment?'
Rafferty grunted and returned his attention to the flickering images on the screen. In silence, they watched the short film through to the end. Rafferty rewound it, turned the machines off, and replaced it in its box, snapping the lid closed with a relieved sigh.
They found nothing else in the bedroom and returned to the living room, with Rafferty clutching the video. There had been little else of interest in the flat, but he found Moon's possession of such an old, obviously amateur film, curious to say the least. Where had he got it from? Why had he got it? And why had he hidden it? Although, on the face of it, the film seemed unlikely to have anything to do with Moon's murder, Rafferty, aware that, in a murder case, curiosities, especially concealed curiosities, often rewarded investigation, thought the answers to his questions might prove interesting.
'We'll be going now, sir,' he told Farley. 'I'm afraid we'll have to take this. Llewellyn write out a receipt, please.'
Farley looked up. 'A video? It doesn't look like one of ours. Where did you get it?'
'In Mr Moon's wardrobe.' Rafferty showed him the cover with its 'Memory Lane' motif. 'Have you ever seen this before, sir?'
Farley shook his head. 'But what's on it? Why on earth would Jasper keep it in his wardrobe?'
On an impulse, Rafferty played the tape through again for Farley's benefit. 'Do you know either of these young men, sir?' he asked when the tape had finished playing.
Farley shook his head again, and Rafferty felt sure he was telling the truth. 'No. I've no idea who they are.' He seemed puzzled rather than upset that Moon should have kept such a film and concealed it from him. 'If Jasper wanted to watch porn films, I'm sure he could do better than that.'
Rafferty nodded. That was what he had thought. 'By the way, sir.' He pulled the Blood Donor reminder letter from his pocket and showed it to Farley. 'Is Hedges Mr Moon's real name?'
The question seemed to disconcert Farley. His expression anxious, he blurted out that he didn't know, and then immediately looked even more anxious.
And here's another little mystery, Rafferty thought, not for a moment believing that Farley wouldn't have known Moon's real name. Rather than tell an out and out lie, Farley had foolishly, impulsively, decided on a midway course, and had immediately regretted it as he realised the police could easily discover Moon's real name from other sources. No doubt there was some peccadillo in Moon's past which Farley hoped to conceal. But, Rafferty reflected, he'd find out soon enough that the pasts of murder victims were as thoroughly gone over as those of their killers. He'd often thought it appalling how little privacy they or their families were left. He didn't press Farley any further on the question of the name. Instead, he asked, 'Could you pop into the station in the next day or so, sir? As soon as you feel up to it.'
'Why?' By now, Farley looked even more lost than before, and his question was half-hearted, as if he had other things on his mind.
'I imagine you spent some time in Mr Moon's office?' Farley nodded. 'In that case, we'll need to eliminate your prints. It's just routine, sir, nothing to worry about.'
Llewellyn finished writing out the receipt and handed it to Farley. 'Would you like us to arrange for anyone to stay with you, sir?' he asked. 'A friend or a member of your family, perhaps, if they live close by? All this must have been a great shock to you.'
Rafferty scowled as he realised he should have made the offer. Trust Llewellyn to remember the simple courtesies, he thought.
Farley, after a glance at Rafferty, shook his head. 'I don't want anyone. I'm better alone.' With a simple dignity, he added, 'But thank you for asking, Sergeant. I appreciate it.' Glancing again at Rafferty, he said, 'Most policemen seem barely able to conceal their distaste for homosexuals like myself, never mind show consideration.'
Rafferty was grateful for the rush of cold air that attacked them as they let themselves out of Moon's flat and retraced their steps. It blew away the shame that Farley's dig had made him feel. Judge not, lest you yourself be judged, was undoubtedly what Llewellyn would have said to him if he was foolish enough to mention it. Rafferty was irritated that his awkward attempts to be understanding had gone unnoticed. He'd done his best, dammit, he thought. It's not as if I licked such prejudices off the street. It was only fair that the Pope and his many battalions took their share of any censure going.
