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AS SOON AS MRS ASTELL had been driven off to the station, Rafferty wasted no time. He called the station for more officers, and when they arrived five minutes later, he led the way upstairs. Once in the Astells' bedroom, he instructed them to begin searching. They started with the wardrobes; Astell's wardrobe was half-empty, but Mrs Astell's was full to bursting. Rafferty watched impatiently, as the clothes in each were checked. To his surprise, Mrs Astell hadn't destroyed the dress she had worn on the evening Moon died. It was foolish of her, but also understandable. It had been expensive. Even if it was likely to incriminate them, not many women would be able to bring themselves to throw away such a beautiful gown. After he examined the hem, and discovered it did have several pulled threads, he had it carefully bagged up and labelled.
Moon, father and daughter, both seemed to favour the same hiding places for their secrets. Because, hidden at the back of Mrs Astell's wardrobe, they found the twin of the Memory Lane DVD they had found concealed in Jasper Moon's wardrobe. After killing Moon, she would have taken and destroyed the DVD Moon played in his office, but she would have realised he would have another copy hidden away. In desperation, she had ransacked his office. Unfortunately for her, Moon had taken the precaution of hiding it at his flat.
Rafferty frowned, he was missing something—what was it? But it hardly mattered. They had the dress and the DVD; with the rest of the case against her, they had more than enough for a conviction. Now he had the evidence, Rafferty was content to leave the other officers to continue their search. With a nod to Llewellyn, he led the way downstairs, and into the sitting room. There was one more thing he needed. He thumbed along the spines of Carstairs' journals till he found the one he wanted. Quickly, he hunted through the first quarter of the journal for 1956. It was as he had thought—Carstairs had been continuously abroad throughout that period. It was just another piece in the jigsaw, because they already knew he couldn't have fathered Sarah.
Astell had been speaking to his solicitor on the telephone when Rafferty came out into the hall and had just put the phone down when someone rang the front door bell.
It was Mercedes Moreno; she wore a concerned expression and, in her hand, carried a large bouquet of flowers.
'I'm afraid Sarah isn't here,' Astell told her. 'The police have taken her to the station for questioning over Jasper's death.' He attempted a bleak smile. 'They seem to think she killed him.'
'What nonsense is this?' Mrs Moreno demanded, turning to Rafferty. 'You think that poor, sick lady could have killed Jaspair? Is stupid. She could not have even left the house,' she insisted. 'I know this as Edwin and I, we were both in the kitchen the entire time, and would have seen her leave the sitting room.'
'Not if she left by the French window,' he told her. Edwin Astell must have momentarily forgotten his earlier story, because when Mercedes Moreno had stated that neither of them had left the kitchen once she had returned to collect her gloves, but had stood chatting, he had nodded his head absently in agreement.
Rafferty quickly picked up the discrepancy. 'I thought you said before that you had popped in on your wife twice during that time?' he said to Astell. 'Mrs Moreno has already told us that she arrived back to fetch her gloves just before 8.10 p m and she's now let slip that you were both in the kitchen the whole time. Perhaps you'd care to explain?' Behind him, he heard Mrs Moreno’s gasp of dismay. 'Perhaps it's time you both told me the whole truth. Mr Astell? I'm waiting.'
'I—I.' Astell cleared his throat and gazed unhappily at him. Then he sighed. 'All right, I admit I lied. I was worried about Sarah. Worried that when you learned of that foolish telephone call she made to Jasper, you might suspect what you evidently do suspect. I thought by saying I had popped in on two occasions between 8.00 p m and 8.30 p m, I would be able to supply her with an alibi. It was obvious that Jasper must have died during those times.'
'I see. Thank you for at last confirming what we've long suspected.' As Llewellyn had said near the beginning of the case, those two visits Astell had claimed to have made to his wife’s sitting room hadn't quite rung true. 'You realise that now we've finally got this information, it strengthens the case against your wife considerably?'
Astell only managed an unhappy nod in reply, all his earlier bluster quite gone.
***
RAFFERTY HAD EXPECTED Sarah Astell to go to pieces during questioning. Instead, to his astonishment, she had shown sufficient sense to take her husband's excellent advice to heart and said nothing until her solicitor arrived. Even then, when Rafferty pointed out that the alibi she and her husband had concocted for her hadn't stood up to deeper investigation, she had merely asked, 'What alibi? I don't know what you're talking about,' refused to discuss it any further, and again insisted she was innocent.
Exasperated by her continuing denials, Rafferty took the DVD out of his pocket, put it in the machine, and pressed the 'play' button. 'We know you went to Moon's office,' he told her. 'We know what happened there.'
As the naked images began playing on the screen, she uttered a horrified cry, making Rafferty jump. 'What are you doing to my Daddy?' she shouted at the writhing bodies on the film. 'Don't you hurt my Daddy. Get off him, get off him.' Her voice had taken on the lisping tones of a little girl, and she leapt at the screen as if she intended to destroy it and the evidence it showed.
Stunned, it was a few seconds before Rafferty reacted, and when he tried to restrain her, he found she was stronger than she looked. With difficulty, he managed to force her back in her chair.
She blinked, and Rafferty, thinking she had got herself under control, moved away. But as she caught sight of the still playing film, she began screaming again.
Courtney, her solicitor, the soul of urbanity till now, banged on the table and shouted above the noise, 'I really must protest, Inspector Rafferty. Protest in the strongest possible terms. What do you think you're doing, showing my client a pornographic film? I really must protest,' he began again, like a stuck record. But his voice was cut off in mid-stream as his client leapt to her feet, one hand landing inadvertently on the solicitor's paunch, effectively robbing him of breath, much to Rafferty's relief.
'Make them turn it off,' she demanded of Courtney, as she put her hands over her face. 'Make them turn it off. Where did they get that filthy thing?'
'You know where,' Rafferty told her. 'It's the DVD Moon sent you for your birthday.'
She denied it, of course. 'It is not! He sent me one of the classics,' she paused as she stumbled for a name—any name, Rafferty thought. 'He sent me a DVD of Jane Eyre, I tell you. Not this...this...abomination. Edwin will tell you it's the truth.'
Rafferty didn't doubt it. Astell would say anything to protect her, that much was clear. 'And where is this other DVD you claim Moon sent you?'
'It's at home in the rack,' she told him sullenly. 'Edwin wouldn't let me throw it away, as I had intended. But I had no intention of playing it. You'd think he'd realise I didn't want birthday presents from that man.'
Rafferty frowned. They were getting nowhere. It was evident they were further away from a confession than ever. He switched the DVD off, hoping it would calm her, and sat beside her. 'We understand how you must have felt, especially when you learned that Alan Carstairs wasn't your father.' He had left an officer at the Astells' house to await the arrival of Sarah's mother. She had insisted on coming to the station, and Rafferty, after a little persuasion, had convinced her to tell them the truth about Sarah's parentage. But it was plain her daughter wasn't about to admit she had discovered her mother's secret the night of Moon’s death.
At Rafferty's words, Sarah Astell took refuge in her semi-invalid status and slumped to the floor in a swoon.
They swiftly revived her. After giving her a glass of water, Rafferty said, 'Please, Mrs Astell, acting like this isn't helping you. I can understand that you've had some tremendous shocks recently. First that DVD, and learning that Moon was your father.'
She stared at him, giving a convincing display that this was the first she had heard of such a suggestion. 'Moon my father? How dare you say such a thing? Of course he wasn't my father.' Naively, she added, 'How could such as he be anyone's father?'
Rafferty tried to make her see that she was only harming herself by her insistent denials. 'Look, Mrs Astell, this behaviour isn't helping you. I'm sure, when the case comes to court, the judge will be sympathetic. But it would still be better for you to start to co-operate. You must tell us the truth.' He paused. 'Now, perhaps we can start again?'
He nodded at Llewellyn to turn the tape recorder back on. Quickly, he repeated the details into the machine, before turning back to Mrs Astell. 'We know you went to Moon's offices that night, so why don't you admit it?'
'But I didn't, I tell you.' She appealed to her solicitor. 'Why won't they believe me?'
A little breathlessly, Courtney told her, 'They think they have evidence that you were there that night.'
'Evidence? But how can they have? What evidence?'
Rafferty told her. 'Unfortunately for you, that expensive cashmere dress with the silver threads snagged on Moon's desk. It's a very distinctive dress, Mrs Astell. Perhaps you can explain how we found threads from it on the desk when you told us you'd never been to the offices?'
'But I wasn't wearing that dress,' Mrs Astell protested.
Rafferty sighed and stood up. Perhaps a few hours to think would bring her to see sense? 'It's useless to lie, Mrs Astell,' he told her as he made for the door. 'We know you were wearing it. In fact—'
'Oh earlier, yes, I did wear it. I admit that. Why shouldn't I? But I felt cold, so I changed into another dress.'
Rafferty paused in the doorway. 'Do you really expect us to believe that?'
'But it's true.'
A faint vein of scepticism threaded through his voice as he asked, 'If it's true, what time – exactly – did you change from the cashmere dress? And what – exactly – did you change into?'
Mrs Astell frowned. 'Let me see. It was just before my father’s old friend, Clara Davies left at 8.00 p m. Mrs Moreno had already left; I'd said my goodbyes, and gone upstairs to change. I'd felt chilly earlier standing at the step seeing Mrs Hadleigh into her taxi, and decided to put on something warmer; a thick, cowl-neck dress in navy and white. I left Edwin chatting to Clara by the door. She’d just left as I came down the stairs after getting changed, and Edwin had gone through to the kitchen. While I was upstairs I remembered I'd promised to let her borrow some of my father's photographs for the biography on him she's trying to write. I quickly took the album I thought most suitable and ran after her. She was just getting into the taxi. She must have seen me very clearly as the outside light was on. She'll be able to tell you what I was wearing.'
Bemused, Rafferty stared at her. Could they have been wrong, after all? But how could they be? There were too many other factors against her. She was simply trying to delay them for reasons of her own. He doubted Clara Davies would confirm what she said. But if she did, the case he had thought so strong would collapse around his ears.
A little shiver of anxiety gripped his stomach. Because, if her story was confirmed, it was improbable she would have stolen upstairs a second time to change back into the chilly number specifically to creep out into the stormy night to murder Moon. Even if she'd had time, and that was unlikely, what would have been the point of such behaviour?
'Just as a matter of interest, Mrs Astell, how many people knew what dress you intended wearing that evening?'
'Well - everyone who had reason to come to the house, I suppose. It's such a beautiful dress, I couldn't wait for Thursday evening, and the opportunity to show it off. I showed it to Mrs Hadleigh, of course, and that charming Mrs Moreno. It was a bit naughty of me, I know, but I wanted her to make that wretched Campbell woman jealous, and I knew Mrs Moreno would be sure to tell her how expensive it was. I know she could never have afforded such a gown.'
Rafferty was surprised that Sarah Astell thought she could, given her own admitted money problems. But then, some women always managed to find money for new clothes. His own late wife had been the same.
'Did you leave anyone alone with the dress?' he asked. 'Alone for long enough to remove some threads?'
Slowly, she nodded. 'Yes. Naturally, I made Mrs Moreno coffee. And Mrs Hadleigh is in and out of the bedrooms all the time. If she'd wanted to tamper with the dress, she could have. But...' Her voice faltered, and she went on uncertainly, 'you said Mrs Hadleigh was no longer a suspect, and as she's the only person who had reason to kill Moon...'
With her exoneration of Ellen Hadleigh, she seemed to come to a realisation of her own position, and her brief spark of animation died. She gazed pitifully at him, a mute plea in her eyes, before she managed to find her voice again. 'If – when – you find I'm telling the truth, will I be allowed to go home?' She clutched her handkerchief to her bosom as if the scrap of lawn and lace was the only thing keeping her from going to pieces. Her voice rose in agitation as she realised she might never go home again. 'Only, it's time for my medication, you see. I don't like to miss it.'
Rafferty cursed himself for a fool. He should have made certain he had her pills. Her brief would be sure to make something of that when it came to court. If – when Clara Davies failed to confirm her story, he'd have to send someone back to the house with Astell for them. He was about to offer her the panacea of tea, but realised she was long past the stage of being able to rely on that as a crutch. She had borne up surprisingly well so far. But as he looked at her, it was obvious that her fragile calmness wouldn't hold out much longer. Her brittle fair hair had escaped its previously neat bun, and stood up wildly, and under the red blotches, her face was stark white, her eyes quite glassy. In a little while, she would start to come apart at the mental seams.
Even though he had little faith in her claims being backed up, compassion compelled him to reassure her. 'If Ms Davies confirms what you say, I'll be able to let you go home very soon. Just give me time to make a phone call.'
He left her with the WPC. Followed by Llewellyn, he hurried along to his office. Picking up the phone, he paused and asked the Welshman, 'Have you got the telephone number of Clara Davies handy?' Llewellyn nodded. 'Let's have it, then. Perhaps once she denies Sarah Astell's tale, Sarah will be prepared to face facts. Then we can get on.' Llewellyn gave him the number, and quickly, he punched it out.
***
SLOWLY, RAFFERTY REPLACED the receiver. He could barely believe it, but Clara Davies had confirmed Sarah Astell's story. And when he had questioned her memory and powers of observation, she had briskly reminded him that she had worked as a designer all her adult life; of course she noticed whether someone was wearing black, silver-threaded cashmere or navy-and white wool.
Dispirited, Rafferty knew he had no more cards to play. They'd worked their way through the entire suspect pack: queens, knaves, even the odd joker. Before today, he'd believed – as the man said – that once they'd done that, whoever was left, however, improbable, must be the murderer.
The trouble was they had nobody left. They had eliminated every single suspect. Not only had the middle-aged woman on the bus whom Llewellyn had thought to be Sarah Astell, turned out to be one of her neighbours, the furtiveness explained by the reluctant information that she had sneaked out to meet her lover, but reliable witnesses had come forward to swear that neither Ginnie Campbell nor Christian Farley had been anywhere near Moon's office at the time of his death. They had actually been seen at the houses of the respective friends where they had claimed to be at around the time Moon had died.
Even Jocelyn Eckersley had finally produced an unimpeachable alibi. He had been at a London literary awards dinner, picking up a special, lifetime's achievement award for Nat Kingston. Desperation made Rafferty wonder if Kingston had killed Moon, and had taken his secret, and the solution to Rafferty's investigation, to the grave.
Rafferty wondered also where the hell he went from here. The thought that Superintendent Bradley would doubtless have some suggestions to make made his stomach curdle. Unfortunately, as he was seeing him in the morning, there was no way he was going to be able to avoid hearing these suggestions. Perhaps, he should ask Mercedes Moreno to prescribe another stone; one that would render their ego-on-legs Superintendent full of sweet reason instead of the accusing diatribe that Rafferty was expecting. Trouble was, he doubted it would be any more effective than the other stone she had given him. The one that was supposed to help him solve the murder.
After he had seen Sarah Astell off home, Rafferty went to find Llewellyn. 'I don't know about you,' he complained to the still alert looking Llewellyn. 'But I've about had a bellyful today. I'm off home.'
Llewellyn nodded. 'I nearly forgot. Happy birthday, Joseph.'
Rafferty had forgotten it was his birthday. And given the way the day had turned out, wasn't in the mood to be reminded. Grim-faced, he demanded, 'Are you trying to be funny?'
He made for the door, slamming it behind him.
***
RAFFERTY OPENED THE door of his flat, kicking aside a belatedly hand-delivered birthday card as he did so. As near total despair as he could ever remember being, he scowled at the mantelpiece and its bright display of family cards that he had opened that morning. Another year older and no smarter, he thought. Age was supposed to bring wisdom; his must have been taken away when they'd whipped out his impacted molars. He'd had the case wrapped up and now...now he was back to square one. Worse, because at least when he'd been at square one the first time round, he'd had hope and enthusiasm. Now, he had neither.
Disgruntled, he took himself and a bottle of Jameson's off to bed. But his dreams were filled with images of fortune-tellers, crystal-ball gazers and tarot-card readers, all predicting a dire future for him. Unsurprisingly, they all wore Superintendent Bradley's face.
Thankfully the sadistic seers eventually tired of tormenting him, and he fell into a heavy sleep, only to wake, shouting, 'But it should have been two!' as the radio alarm went off. He climbed reluctantly out of bed to greet both the new day and a splitting headache. After swallowing a couple of painkillers, he headed for the shower.
The post fell to the mat as he came out of the bathroom. He carried it through to the kitchen and opened it while he waited for the kettle to boil. Gas bill. Phone bill. The belated birthday card from some night club touting for members that he had kicked aside the night before. He threw it in the bin, took his tea through to the bedroom, and got dressed.
He was halfway to his car when he stopped. My God, he thought. What if Moon had got it wrong? He sprinted the last few yards to his car, headache forgotten as he realised the implications. He broke all the speed limits on the way to the station and burst into his office like a kid on Christmas morning.
'Quick,' he said to a startled Llewellyn. 'Where's Moon's diary? Don't stand there staring at me, man,' he shouted as Llewellyn made no move to answer him. 'And don't tell me it hasn't come back from the accountants. I want it now. This could be important.'
Llewellyn went out without a word. He returned in five minutes, the diary under his arm. Rafferty snatched it from him and thumbed through to the appropriate page. When he raised his head, his eyes were shining. 'Gotcher.'
And now, he also realised just what it was that had niggled him the previous day. Because his dream had been right. Unless Sarah Astell had inexplicably thrown one away, it should have been two.
