| |
DEMORALISED AFTER RECEIVING such a knock-back, Rafferty gave himself a pep-talk. You're a copper, he reminded himself. And coppers 'cop', not cop-out. You've still got a case to investigate; still got suspects with shaky alibis, so get on with it. You can start by having another word with Ginnie Campbell.
***
AS RAFFERTY OPENED the door of The Psychic Stores, he snatched a glance at Llewellyn's face. The Welshman, still put out over Rafferty's angry outburst that morning, was barely talking to him. Even an apology had done little to thaw the air. But instead of throwing him deeper into the glooms, Llewellyn's 'nasty smell under the nose' expression filled Rafferty with a new determination to catch Moon's killer. It was just going to take longer than he'd thought, that was all.
There was music playing in the background. Strangely soothing, it sounded like a rushing wind interspersed with the cries of sea birds and the calls of whales and dolphins.
'Do you like it, gentlemen?' Mercedes Moreno materialised beside them, and fixed Rafferty with her great dark eyes.
'It's—unusual.'
'It's designed to relax the stressed mind,' she told him. 'Would you like a copy? It's a very reasonable price.' She paused and added softly, 'I'm sure even Edwin would be happy to offer a discount in your case, especially if it calms your mind sufficiently to enable you to catch Jasper's murderer.'
Rafferty smiled. 'Very good of him. But I think it will take more than my listening to the dolphins' greatest hits to secure a conviction.'
'I see you are a sceptic, Inspector. Perhaps our stones and crystals would be more to your taste?'
Rafferty, remembering the claims for these trinkets painted on the shop window, shook his head. 'I don't think so. I don't believe in such things.'
Mrs Moreno stared at him as if he'd just uttered the psychic equivalent of blasphemy, before commenting, 'Even a sceptic can't totally deny the wonderful properties of crystals. Their use in radios and watches; their ability to "oscillate" at specific vibratory rates. Surely you're aware of this?'
Rafferty was forced to admit that he was.
'Then why are you so ready to reject their powers in other areas of life? It is not logical.'
Llewellyn could have told her that logic had never been one of his strong points, but as this would have forced him out of his standoffish mood, he said nothing, and merely twitched his lips downwards in a way that more than adequately expressed his thoughts on the subject. Rafferty ignored him.
'You must at least let me try to convince you of their qualities before you reject them,' Mrs Moreno insisted. Her voice filled with the fanatical conviction of the true believer. 'Tell me what areas of your life are causing you anguish, and I will tell you which of our gems and crystals has the power to help you. If you have money problems, you should wear Jade, as it promotes a long and prosperous life; if you have love problems,' she gestured at a stone with a pale, pearly sheen, 'a Moonstone exchanged with your lover will ensure your passion is returned; if you have health problems,' she pointed at another stone, 'a Bloodstone will stimulate physical strength.'
From childhood, Rafferty had rejected the Catholic Church's automatic assumption that they owned his mind, his soul, and any other bits they fancied. Now, as a matter of bloody-minded principle, he always firmly resisted the arrogant insistence from any other empirical quarter that he should do this, think that, believe the other. To reinforce his stance, he brought out his sharp cynic's pin and applied it. 'I've got a murder to solve,' he reminded her bluntly. 'I don't think trinkets will help me with that.'
It seemed he'd only succeeded in pricking her professional pride, for her voice rose on a triumphant note, as she told him, 'That is where you are wrong. I shall prove it to you.' She looked down at the selection of gems and crystals displayed on the counter. 'I will prescribe for you a suitable stone.' After a few moments, she placed a violet-pink stone in his hand and commented, 'Most people, at first, do not believe in the power of the stones. I simply tell them to wait and let the stones convince them.'
A likely story, thought Rafferty. And if they needed further convincing, no doubt she bashed them over the head with the biggest stone in the shop. The threat of physical violence was the greatest persuader of all; as most of the world's religions had discovered centuries ago.
She glanced down. 'This is Sugalite. It aids in the development of the Third Eye, seeing or inner vision. It unclogs the mind and enables it to get to the heart of things. You will find it beneficial, of this I am certain.' She closed Rafferty's fist over the stone and moved his hand close to his head. After a few moments, she asked, 'Do you get any sensation from it?'
Rafferty was about to deny it, but then he became aware that his heart had begun to flutter, and that the hairs on his arms were standing on end. The stone seemed to generate a warmth on his palm, and now he realised that the headache that had been nagging at him earlier had faded. Irritated, and feeling slightly foolish at the admission, he told her what he felt.
Half expecting a triumphant 'Hallelujah', Rafferty was surprised that she restricted herself to a more restrained response.
'That is good,' she told him. 'It indicates there is a rapport between you.' He went to give the stone back to her, but she closed his hand over it and told him. 'Keep it. Carry it with you always. Call it my contribution to your investigation.'
Rafferty simply nodded. Apart from any other consideration, he sensed it would be foolhardy to offend the intense South American woman. She reminded him of an iceberg—nine-tenths hidden, and he wondered what lay concealed beneath that cool white exterior.
'Actually we came to see Mrs Campbell,' he told her. The forensic team had finished their work now and the offices as well as the shop were again in use. 'I imagine she's upstairs working?' Mrs Moreno's face tightened, and Rafferty realised just how little love there was between the two women.
'Yes. She has just returned from seeing a client. A very important man who was one of Jaspair's regulars. She hopes that if she retains his custom she will keep her job.' She smiled again, but this time her smile was one of cool gratification. 'Once she had hopes for a partnership, now she just hopes to stay in employment. Is sad, no?'
Rafferty pretended innocence. 'Is Mr Astell thinking of winding up the business?'
‘No.’ Her forehead creased as she considered his remark. 'At least, I do not think so. What I meant was that her services may no longer be required here. Edwin never took to her, though, Jaspair liked her a lot. I think this was because he found her outrageous, like himself. But I think even he was beginning to find her tiresome. She was too like him and made him aware of traits in his character that he preferred to ignore. She was also very impetuous and demanding. She wanted to prove to him that she could be good with the clients, but she got little more chance to do that than I. Edwin told me he had wanted to look into her background before Jaspair took her on, but Jaspair said he already knew as much about her as he needed. Besides, he felt fate had decided it for him. He wanted help with the natal charts; she wanted a job—fate he felt had decreed that the two should come together. It was the same with me. Six months ago I have no home, no job, and no money. Then, from nowhere I meet Jaspair, and before you know it, I have all these things. It was fate, you see, Inspector. Fate, Kismet, Nemesis. Call it what you will. You cannot deny its power.'
She was right there, at any rate. But Rafferty wished his experience of fate had been as kind as Mercedes Moreno's had apparently been. When he had once complained to Llewellyn on this very subject, solemn-faced, the Welshman had told him that by his rise to Inspector, he had put himself under the sway of Nemesis, the Greek goddess of retribution and vengeance.
Uneasily, Rafferty remembered what Llewellyn had told him—that Nemesis illustrated a basic concept in Greek thought: that people who rise above their condition expose themselves to reprisals from the gods. At the time he had assumed that Llewellyn's tongue had been firmly in his cheek. But now, as Llewellyn's dark eyes met his, their very expressionlessness made him uneasy. Did Llewellyn know something he didn't? Had Nemesis, or Superintendent Bradley, her current earthly form, discovered his little PIMP joke? Worse—was he about to issue reprisals?
Seemingly unaware of this by-play going on under her nose, Mercedes Moreno confided, 'La Senora Campbell has much ambition. She wanted to impress Jaspair with her skills, and she felt that Edwin was deliberately thwarting her. She accused him of sabotaging her hopes for a partnership. Was not true. She knew that her work would be on the postal side before she started here.' Her narrow shoulders executed a tiny shrug. 'She is foolish woman. Is it likely that Jaspair would allow such a one near the more valued clients? She has no subtlety, no discretion. The postal clients were generally, how you say—one-offs, or at the most, they would want a twelve month, once a year forecast. She could do little damage there. But the personal clients were repeat business. Some came every week.' She paused to light several joss sticks, and a delicious fragrance wafted under Rafferty's nostrils.
'Is sandalwood.' She threw the remark over her shoulder as she placed the sticks in jars dotted around the shop before returning behind the counter. 'Senora Campbell could not become a partner in any case,' she told him. 'She has no money. I believe she is in much debt and is being pressed for payment.'
Mrs Moreno presumably had no money either, Rafferty reflected. Yet, she too, seemed to harbour ambitions beyond her ability to pay for them. If it wasn't for the fact that her alibi checked out, he would think she was trying to cast suspicion on Ginnie Campbell in order to remove any suspicion from herself. Yet her alibi had stood up to scrutiny. She had told them she had gone straight on to the Astells' home the evening of the murder. Originally leaving at 8.00 p m, she had returned just before 8.10 p m to collect her forgotten gloves ,and had stayed chatting with Astell in the kitchen till getting on for 9.00 p m. If Sam Dally and Ellen Hadleigh were to be believed, Moon had certainly been dead by then.
On the other hand, they already knew that Ginnie Campbell had an erratic personality; sufficiently thwarted, she could be capable of violence. She only had her "friend's" evidence to back her up, yet, if the friend's neighbours were to be believed, it was hardly a solid alibi. She could have returned to the office that night to speak privately with Moon. If Moon had brought one of her eruptions on himself by denying her hopes for a partnership, she might easily have physically attacked him. Rafferty doubted that Moon would have agreed to such a tempestuous personality having a share in the business. He had an emotional partner at home; he surely wouldn't want one at work as well. From what Mrs Moreno said, he had begun to regret taking her on at all. Yet he hadn't got rid of her. Why?
Rafferty recalled what the landlord of The Troubadour had said. Moon had guaranteed her a job as long as she didn't contravene his esoteric moral code. Was it possible he had caught her with her hand in the till? If he had, she would find not only her over-optimistic hopes for a partnership crushed, but her job would be likely to go, too. He looked up to catch Mercedes Moreno's smoky gaze fixed intently on him. It made him uneasy, and he headed for the stairs at the back of the shop. 'Thanks for your help,' he said. Remembering his manners, he hefted the stone. 'And for this. I hope it does the trick.'
'There are no tricks involved,' she coolly reproved. 'I am not a conjurer, Inspector. But I do have a certain professional pride. If you carry the stone with you always, you will discover its properties for yourself.'
'Right. Well, thanks again.' Perhaps, while he was here, he should take the precaution of obtaining a stone to charm away Bradley's wrath? It would be no use, though he realised. Nothing could be that potent. Besides, the woman gave him the creeps. He wanted to get out of reach of her mesmeric eyes. He had a superstitious suspicion she would set some hex on him if he turned his back on her.
As they climbed the stairs to the offices, he wondered if she was hoping that Edwin Astell would offer her a partnership. He would certainly need someone, and she was there, on the spot. Maybe she was hoping that Astell would be so desperate for someone reliable to help get the business back on its feet that he wouldn't expect her to put any money in.
He shook his head. Too many maybes, Rafferty, he told himself. He found he was still clutching the Sugalite that Mercedes Moreno had forced on him and, with a scowl, he thrust it in his pocket and promptly forgot about it.
Ginnie Campbell didn't appear to be working very hard. Her computer screen was blank, and the pile of post on her desk had yet to be opened. If she was set on keeping her job, it was hardly the way to impress Edwin Astell.
'Inspector.' Her violet eyes were watchful. 'What is it this time?'
'Just one or two little queries. You told us you were at your friend's house the entire night when Jasper Moon was murdered. Trouble is, none of your neighbours saw your car outside. Perhaps you can explain why?'
Her hasty temper flared. 'Are you saying you don't believe me?'
'No. What I'm saying is we have to check such statements, which is what I'm doing. I suggest you calm down and answer the question.'
Her violet eyes deepened to a stormy purple. Rafferty felt waves of barely controlled rage. It shook him, and briefly, he wondered if she was quite sane. He felt relieved that Llewellyn was there and that there were no blunt instruments handy.
'My boyfriend's neighbours are as unfriendly as mine,' she finally told them. 'They enjoy causing trouble. I don't suppose any of them mentioned that the people across the way held a party that evening? My boyfriend and I had been out for the day, as I told you. When we returned we had to park in the next street because the neighbours' guests had taken the nearer spaces.'
'I see. Thank you. We'll check it out.'
'Do that,' she told him, with a toss of her bright hair. Her rage had passed as quickly as it had come; now she was merely sullen. 'You can check as much as you like. Maybe this time the neighbours will tell you the truth.'
He nodded. But, as he told the still aloof Llewellyn as they made their way back to the station, she could still have slipped out the back way. There was an alley running along behind those houses, and it would be dark well before 8.00 p m.
It could be no more than a five-minute drive to Moon's office from St Mark's Road; time enough to argue with Moon, kill him and return without the neighbours being any the wiser.
From what the neighbours had told them, the boyfriend was a drinker who had a habit of passing out for hours. If it had suited her plans, Rafferty doubted it would have taken much effort on her part to render him totally insensible. He was still convinced she was hiding something. But whether it was her own guilt, or information concerning one of the other suspects, they had yet to discover.
***
TERRY HADLEIGH STILL hadn't turned up. They'd already been searching for him for several days; he'd obviously gone to ground. But he would have to surface sometime, Rafferty reminded himself. And when he did, they'd nab him. Hadleigh could be the key to this case, he realised. But until he had heard his story from his own lips, he wouldn't know whether to believe it or not. But—until they did find him the investigation had to continue.
There were still several avenues they had yet to check. The squad had already worked their way through the greater part of Moon's client list. Most of the names on it lived very public lives and – to Rafferty's chagrin, as he still had faint hopes in that direction – even the Gemini’s amongst them were easily eliminated. So much for his Ma's bright idea. It seemed now that his first thoughts had been right after all, and that Moon, like those on hallucinogenic drugs convinced they had found and lost the very secret of the Universe, had felt he was scrawling something important, when all he had written had been meaningless gibberish. He was already dying, would have been confused and disorientated. How likely was it, that in such a state, Moon had been able to write a lucid message?
To add to his other disappointments, Rafferty discovered that Sian Silk, the film actress, and one of Moon's more luscious star clients, had been in America at the time of the murder. In spite of his suddenly discovered desire for a partner in life, he could still appreciate the film star's charms, and he had been looking forward to interviewing her. Thoughts of her sultry attractions would have warmed the long winter nights...
Llewellyn was luckier, as another of Moon's clients, and, as Rafferty discovered – one of the Welshman's idols, Nat Kingston, the prominent local writer and critic – had not only had an appointment with Moon on the day of his murder, but had been unable to produce a solid alibi. When he had mentioned Kingston's name, Llewellyn's standoffish air had faded to wistful, and Rafferty, grateful to find a way to render Llewellyn as close to sweetness and light as he ever got, had decided there was no need for both of them to be disappointed. They were on their way to see Kingston now.
Nat Kingston had written only four books, each one taking about five years in the writing, but, according to a now almost chatty Llewellyn, they were much admired by the literati amongst whom he had a reputation not far short of genius. Reclusive almost to a Howard Hughes degree, Kingston was nowadays reputed to rarely leave his home. He lived alone – apart from a male secretary-companion, Jocelyn Eckersley, to whom Rafferty had spoken – in a detached house that overlooked the sea a little further along the coast from Elmhurst. His literary-buff sergeant told him that Kingston had never married, never been known to have any involvement with women and—given Moon's homosexuality, Rafferty's brain immediately leapt into suspicion mode.
They approached the closed wooden gates of Kingston's isolated house and Rafferty pressed the bell set into the wall. A few seconds later a voice squawked from the grill beside the gate post. Rafferty explained their business and the gates swung silently apart. For once, the morning was balmy, and they had driven down with the windows open. Now, as the gates slid as smoothly shut behind them, Rafferty could hear the sound of the ocean beyond the house. Kingston's home, a gaunt, grey-stoned mansion, was perched near the cliff edge.
As they got out of the car, the front door opened and a youngish man came down the steps to greet them. 'He must be the secretary,' Rafferty murmured. 'When we get to see Kingston himself, you can do the talking. Soften him up by praising his books—lie if you have to. All writers are supposed to be vain.'
'I won't need to lie,' Llewellyn replied softly. 'Kingston's a great man. It's a rare privilege to meet him.'
Rafferty thought of other so-called "great" men, whose towering reputations time and truth had tumbled, and he muttered warningly under his breath, 'Just remember, you're here as a policeman, interviewing a possible suspect in a murder case, not as some sort of literary groupie looking to mark another notch on your bookcase.'
Luckily before Llewellyn's reproachful expression found utterance, the secretary had reached them.
'Inspector Rafferty?' He was older than Rafferty had thought. In his mid-thirties at least, but with skin so smooth he looked as if he had just come out of the trouser press. 'I'm Jocelyn Eckersley, Nathaniel Kingston's secretary.' He spoke Kingston's name with reverence, as if, to him, the writer had the status of a god.
Rafferty nodded. 'Mr Eckersley. I explained on the phone that I need to speak to Mr Kingston in connection with the death of Jasper Moon and—'
'You explained that, certainly.' Eckersley's smoothness was of the steely variety, as his voice attested. 'But you didn't really explain why. I told you that my employer rarely leaves the house. He certainly hasn't been visiting and murdering prominent astrologers. It's too bad that he should be disturbed like this, especially as I really can't believe he can help you with your investigation.'
Another of Rafferty's collection of prejudices – this time against smooth types – gave an edge to his voice. 'Perhaps you'll allow me to be the judge of that, Mr Eckersley. Could we see Mr Kingston now, please?'
Eckersley stared at him for several seconds, his expression hostile, before acknowledging by an inclination of his head that Rafferty had the upper hand. He turned without another word. They followed, and as they rounded the corner of the building, Rafferty could see the great man himself. He was sitting alone on the terrace, gazing out over the grey North Sea.
'Mr Kingston spends a great deal of time there when the weather's fine,' Eckersley murmured distantly. 'It's one of the few pleasures he has left.'
As Rafferty drew closer, he began to understand why Eckersley had been so protective of his boss. Kingston's body was shrunken as if he had some wasting disease—if so, it explained why he rarely left his home. His face was in profile, his fleshless cheeks fell away sharply, leaving his high-bridged nose prominent, like that of an emaciated eagle. He turned at their approaching footsteps. His eyes were a piercing cornflower blue, and looked astonishingly youthful in a face owning more skull than flesh. Rafferty's earlier suspicions fell away as it became apparent that, even with the walking stick that rested against his chair, Kingston would have enough trouble hobbling around his own home, never mind climbing the long flight of stairs to Moon's consulting rooms and murdering him.
'Inspector?' In spite of his physical degeneration, Kingston's voice was surprisingly strong and rich, each syllable given its full weight in a voice that could have been made for the stage. 'My secretary told me you would be calling. Come, sit down by me and keep an old man company for a while.'
Rafferty sat. 'I didn't think you liked company much, Mr Kingston.'
'It depends on the company, Inspector. But I think I'll risk it.'
He might be old, sick—dying even, but Kingston had a definite presence. Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn. The Welshman's pale face had a slight flush at the cheekbones; his eyes drank Kingston in as though he was determined to commit every detail of the meeting to memory. 'I hear a tiny hint of Blarney in your voice,' Kingston continued. 'And the Irish generally have a refreshing candour and lack of pomposity. As one gets older, one finds most people wearisome. Now I have neither the stamina nor the time for clacking tongues that say little, and minds that peck over the banal as if it were Holy Writ.' He paused and gave them a gentle, self-mocking smile. 'I'm being tiresome. A self-indulgence of the aged that I've always deplored. You wanted to speak to me about Jasper Moon's murder?'
'Yes.' The secretary hovered protectively over his employer, as if he suspected Rafferty would lurch across the table and drag a confession out of him. Rafferty felt increasingly conscious that they were here on a fool's errand. 'I believe you were one of Jasper Moon's clients?'
'Hardly a client,' Eckersley broke in. 'Mr Kingston consulted Moon just once, some months ago. I really don't see—'
'Thank you, Jocelyn.' Kingston turned his head the barest fraction as if the least exertion tired him. 'Perhaps you would be good enough to bring some refreshments for our guests?'
'But—'
'Is coffee all right?' Kingston glanced at the two policemen, who nodded. 'Good coffee is one of the pleasures forbidden to me, but I think, just this once... Oh, and Jocelyn,' he added, as the secretary still hovered, 'I think our guests might enjoy some of that fruit-cake Teddy sent.' Though he spoke softly, his voice was firm, and Jocelyn retreated.
'I must apologise for my young friend.' Kingston's gentle smile embraced them both. 'He means well, but he can be a little over-zealous. Still, what he said is correct. I consulted Jasper once, about three months ago. Perhaps I should explain that I had already met Moon several times at literary functions—we have the same publisher. He impressed me, even more so as a good friend of mine had consulted him and Moon warned him he should consult a doctor as his hands showed the beginnings of a health problem. Moon was right, as my friend's doctor confirmed. My friend suggested I see Moon when I complained of feeling unwell; he even made the appointment for me. Anyway, I kept the appointment.'
'You didn't think of consulting a doctor?' Rafferty asked.
Kingston smiled ruefully. 'Even so-called literary lions can be squeamish kittens when it comes to their health—ignorance is bliss and all that. You know how one puts these things off. My own doctor had retired, I didn't find his successor very congenial, and I simply hadn't got around to making alternative arrangements. So, as a compromise, I saw Jasper Moon.'
'Did Moon come here for the consultation?'
'No. I went to his office. I was stronger then. My secretary drove me. Anyway, at first Moon would say little more about my health than that I should consult a doctor as soon as possible. I insisted that he tell me more. I imagine he thought he was breaching some code of ethics to which he adhered, but finally he did me the courtesy of accepting that I knew my own mind, and admitted that my hands showed all the signs of an extremely serious disease. He was right, I'm afraid, as the doctors confirmed when I finally saw them. I haven't long to live. That was the only occasion I saw him.'
'I see.' After glancing at Llewellyn's stunned face, Rafferty shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable with Kingston's serene acceptance of his own imminent death.
'Please don't be embarrassed.' Kingston's death's head smile embraced them both. 'I have had a good life, a rich life, more than most people have. I am not afraid to die. Ask whatever questions you feel necessary.' Still Rafferty hesitated and Kingston's eyes crinkled as if Rafferty's discomfiture provided him with a secret amusement. 'Come now, Inspector. I'm sure you haven't come down here just to admire the view. Ask away. Before Jocelyn returns. Preferably before I die.'
Rafferty smiled. He liked this old man. On the way down, he had imagined himself being squashed by the writer's superior brain, but he wasn't the intellectual ogre he had assumed. He was beginning to enjoy Nat Kingston's company and he fell in with his suggestion, forgetting that he had told Llewellyn to ask the questions. Anyway, Llewellyn still looked stunned at the news of his idol's imminent death. 'Moon's appointments diary had your name entered several times—the first three months ago as you said, and the last on the day he died. Can you explain that?'
'I'm afraid I was humouring him, Inspector. He seemed to think I would need counselling once I had the doctors investigate his warning. So he made further appointments which I had no intention of keeping. It seemed kinder to let him do so. I didn't meet him again. I read that he died last Thursday, but I can assure you I didn't kill him. I was here all that day, as I am every day. Violence is anathema to me. It always has been. Words have always been my strength, my sword.' The eyes were gently mocking. 'Seeing me now, the physical wreck I have become, you probably won't believe me when I say I can be a veritable terror for the truth. But Moon believed it, and so he told me what I needed to know.'
He held out his hands. They were as pale, as wasted as the rest of him, the lines on his palms were broken up, all but the head line were weak, islanded as they crossed the palm. 'I was still fairly robust when I saw him, but Moon knew. Although he urged me to see a doctor, I think we both knew it was too late for that; my health worsened swiftly soon after I had seen him. I could see the pity in his eyes. That's what made me so insistent.'
He put his hands back in his lap. 'I've always believed a man has the right to make decision about his own life, and to do that he needs to know if his death is imminent. The doctors told me I would die without treatment, but I would also die with treatment. There seemed little point in putting my poor body through tortuous regimes to gain a few more weeks of life, so I came home. I wanted to arrange my affairs.' His gaze returned to the ocean, and he smiled his gentle smile, as if he saw something out there that more earth-bound mortals couldn't see. 'I have now done so and I can die in peace.'
They sat in a curiously companionable silence after that, broken only when Jocelyn Eckersley brought deliciously fragrant coffee in giant cups. He had ‘forgotten’ the fruit cake.
Llewellyn, his face even more mournful than usual, chatted quietly to Kingston about his life and work. The old man answered him politely enough, but Rafferty got the impression the subject bored him. That part of his life was past, done with, his manner implied. All that remained to Kingston was eternity, and whatever place in the annals of the great the literati decided to award him. They left soon after, Llewellyn so subdued, he didn't even point out that he had been supposed to ask the questions.
'That's one suspect out of the running,' Rafferty ventured to comment, when they were halfway back to the station.
Llewellyn turned his head. 'You didn't seriously suspect him, did you? A man like that wouldn't descend to murder. Only the highest, most honourable motives would prompt a man like that to kill.'
'I liked the old man myself,' Rafferty told him. 'But he still had to be questioned. You know that. It's called police-work, Dafyd,' Rafferty gently reminded him. 'Remember that quaint old word?'
They had now worked their way through Moon’s entire client list with no result. They had all checked out. Astell would be pleased, Rafferty thought. He's been itching to get them all off my suspect list. His thoughts were interrupted as a call came through on the radio. The elusive Terry Hadleigh had finally turned up; the need for food and money having brought him out of hiding. Harry McGrath, one of Rafferty's contacts in the Met, had spotted him draped on the euphemistically named "meat rack" in Piccadilly Circus, among the rest of the bodies for sale. He was expected back at Elmhurst at any time.
Rafferty put down the radio mike. Sitting back in the passenger seat, he instructed Llewellyn to put his foot down; a pointless request with Llewellyn, of course, who was caution itself behind the wheel. However, Rafferty made no comment. He merely sat, running over in his head the best way to conduct the coming interview. At the least, he hoped they would get to the bottom of the business of the art lessons.
