RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  The blond looked piqued. 'Do you mind? Me, friends with that little tart? There's no need to be insulting.'

  Rafferty sighed. Telling himself he should have got the tactful Llewellyn to do the questioning, he tried again. 'Do you know if he was a particular friend of Jasper Moon?'

  'I'm sure I couldn't say. I'm not a dating agency, dear. I don't keep tabs on every little sexuel divertissement that goes on around here. And it's not as if Jasper came in here that often. He was always flying off somewhere.'

  Rafferty had another word with the landlord. But as he told him that no-one else in the pub had known Terry Hadleigh well, or would be likely to know where to find him, they finished their drinks and left.

  'Interesting that Moon had worked for Alan Carstairs at one time,' Llewellyn commented.

  'It would be more interesting if it hadn't been so long ago,' Rafferty replied. 'Sarah Astell didn't mention it, though I doubt she knew. Alan Carstairs seems the type to have got through employees at a great rate of knots. I imagine Moon was one in a very long line. Remind me to ask her about it, though. Just to clear the matter up.' They got in the car and Rafferty started the engine. 'Next stop Ellen Hadleigh. Let's hope she has some idea where Terry might be and that she's willing to tell us.' He jerked his head back towards the pub. 'Even though Carstairs doesn't appear to have been one of his successes, it seems Moon was a past master at winning friends and influencing people.

  'When you're successful, everyone wants to be your friend,' Llewellyn commented succinctly.

  Smiling sourly, Rafferty asked, 'Where'd you get that little homily from? Another of your know-all Greek chums, I suppose?'

  Llewellyn nodded. 'Ovid, as it happens. From his Tris—'

  'I've got another one for you – a murder victim becomes everyone's best buddy even quicker – that's from Rafferty's Ruminations. And even if Moon's turned into some kind of plaster saint now he's dead, the boyfriend hasn't. And he's the jealous type. I wonder if he suspected that Moon was seeing someone else. Perhaps, when we've seen Ellen Hadleigh, we ought to go and visit Farley again. As far as possible suspects go, he seems to be fast coming up on Terry Hadleigh's heels. It might be worth checking out his alibi again.'

  Chapter Seven

  ELLEN HADLEIGH LIVED near the railway station, in a flat on a Council estate. Rafferty knew from the frequent police call-outs that this was where the Council housed their more troublesome tenants, though he doubted Mrs Hadleigh came into that category. Her respectability would be used as a barrier against her neighbours; having heard what Beard had said about her son, he realised why she should need to. They would know all about Terry's arrests for soliciting; he had featured in the local paper on several occasions, even if, as Beard had said, it had been some time ago. She'd lived alone since her son had moved out to try his luck in London.

  The Council seemed to have spared every expense in maintaining the estate. Most of the shed doors had been pulled off their hinges, the bricks enclosing the weed and litter-filled flowerbeds were tumbling down, and, from the roof, a steady cascade of rainwater splashed noisily on to the cracked paving.

  Rafferty checked his notebook as another train clattered past. Ellen Hadleigh lived at number thirty-nine, on the third floor. Glad to get out of the relentless downpour, which had continued with barely a break for the best part of a week, they walked through to the lift. Predictably, it smelled of stale urine. Rafferty wrinkled his nose, and while Llewellyn tried to get the lift to work, he studied the graffiti adorning its walls.

  "Sharon loves Tracey", confided one epistle. Another declared, "Tracey loves Shane". A third said, "Get out of this lift, you ugly bastards". The rest, mercifully, were in an unreadable, semi-illiterate scrawl. Rafferty's spirits drooped. He was glad to exit the stinking little grey box when Llewellyn told him the lift seemed to be out of order.

  They trudged upstairs littered with discarded contraceptives and dried pools of vomit. A young girl of about eighteen passed them as they reached the third flight of stairs. She was pale-faced and dull eyed, as though robbed of her spirit by her soulless environment. She carried a fat, grizzling toddler under one arm, and a fold-up pushchair under the other. Llewellyn, ever the gentleman, offered to carry the heavy child down for her and was rewarded with a suspicious look from under spiky blonde hair. Clutching the baby more tightly, she hurried past them. The little boy, presumably frightened by the sudden acceleration of their descent, screamed and his cries echoed and re-echoed painfully round the concrete stairwell.

  'That'll teach you to accost strange young women,' Rafferty remarked. 'Surely your mother told you it wasn't a good idea?'

  Llewellyn's long face grew morose, his expression that of a misunderstood Victorian gentleman whose hobby of saving fallen women was being wilfully misinterpreted. 'I only wanted to help her. Surely she didn't think I was—?'

  'For God's sake, Dafyd, of course she did.' It was a constant source of amused amazement to Rafferty that, for all Llewellyn's superior university education, he could still be surprisingly naive about some things. Of course, he had spent a large part of his youth living the unworldly country life of a Welsh minister's dutiful son. Showed what too much religion could do to a man. Thank God he'd never taken to it. 'Listen Einstein. Her fellow tenants don't live in your particular intellectual ivory tower, unfortunately for her—more like Sodom and Gomorrah. For all she knew, we could have been rapists operating in tandem. Wouldn't you be scared to meet two "ugly bastards" like us if you were on your own? The poor bitch probably gets accosted on these stairs several times a week.' He punched Llewellyn lightly on the arm. 'Never mind, I know your intentions were strictly honourable. Come on. It's up here.'

  Number thirty-nine was at the end of the balcony. As Llewellyn knocked on the door, Rafferty studied the exterior of the flat. Although the door, in common with the rest of the block, needed a coat of paint, the knocker gleamed from a regular and vigorous application of polish.

  The door opened a mere four inches, restricted by the cheap security chain, and Ellen Hadleigh's face peered suspiciously out at them. 'Oh.' Her expression stiffened as she recognised them. 'It's you. What do you want? I've told you all I know.'

  Llewellyn, presumably still put out by the incident on the stairs, and unwilling to conduct the interview on the landing, had lost some of the shine from his usually impeccable manners. 'So, you're saying you had no idea that Jasper Moon used to be known as Peter Hedges and that he assaulted your son as a boy?'

  She quickly denied it. 'Of course I didn't.' As usual, with unpractised liars, she tried too hard to justify her lies and forgot to voice shock, dismay horror at what was supposedly unwelcome news. 'How could I know such a thing when I never saw the man but the once? He was away in America when I started at Constellation Consultants, and even when he returned shortly before his death, he never arrived till after I'd finished my work and gone. It was only the night of his death that I set eyes on him and that was for a matter of seconds.'

  Far from satisfied with her answers, Rafferty persuaded her to let them in. Her face withdrew and the door closed. It opened again a moment later, with a noisy rattle as the chain was released. About to remove his coat when she invited them to sit down, Rafferty kept it on instead, as he realised the room was like an ice box. He wondered how she managed. Presumably, the only income she had was a small State pension, and whatever she could pick up through various cleaning jobs. How often did she sit alone and in pain, unable to afford to heat the freezing room adequately? He guessed that her poverty was of that proud variety that would spurn any offers of charity, though he rather doubted any would be likely to be offered, anyway. With charity, as with everything else in life, those who shouted loudest got the most.

  As though she had read his mind, she leaned forward in her chair and turned the gas fire on. Her manner defensive, she explained, 'I'm sorry it's so cold in here. I've been doing my housework, so I didn't bother to put it on.'

  Rafferty nodded,
happy to collude in the lie that the chill of the room was from choice rather than necessity. But how likely was it that she would do her housework in what looked like her best dress? A long-sleeved, high-necked navy affair that gave the appearance of semi-mourning. 'You were saying you had seen Jasper Moon once only, for a period of seconds, and had no idea that he was Peter Hedges,' he began, taking over where Llewellyn had left off. 'Yet Jasper Moon was well known. He was the astrologer on several glossy women's magazines, with his photograph prominent at the top of the page. He appeared on morning television. You had many opportunities to see his face and recognise him. Surely—'

  'I can't afford to buy glossy magazines,' she told him scornfully. 'Two and three pounds or more most of them are. Do you think my pension stretches to such extravagances? I buy essentials and that's all. And when I get up I prefer to listen to the radio. It's easy to see you don't suffer from arthritis, Inspector. If I sat slumped in front of the television first thing, my legs would just stiffen up and I'd never be able to get to my work.'

  What she said seemed reasonable. He had already noted that money must be tight. And what she said about watching morning television seemed eminently logical, too. Yet from what Beard had said, it sounded as if Terry made a habit of running home to mum when he was in trouble. It was improbable, after the biggest trouble of his life, that he wouldn't follow his usual practise. And even if Ellen Hadleigh hadn't realised Moon's true identity before his murder, her son would be sure to blurt it out along with the news of his death. 'Do you know where your son is, Mrs Hadleigh?' he asked.

  'No. I've no idea.'

  'It's very important we find him. Jasper Moon was murdered, and your son's fingerprints have been found in his office. Seems likely he could be in serious trouble. Very serious. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this matter goes way beyond his usual petty offences. Now, perhaps we can try again? Can you tell me what possible reason he could have for going to Moon's office?'

  After staring assessingly at him for some seconds, she must have realised that, if she was to help her son, she had to tell them the truth, for she said, 'All right, I'll tell you what I know. I don't want you thinking the worst of him. But,' she fixed him with a firm gaze, 'my son didn't go there to murder him, as you seem to think. Unlikely as it seems, they'd become friendly.' She frowned and looked down at her red, work-worn hands where they gripped each other in her lap. 'I had no idea who Moon was, no idea of what had been going on till my son told me he was dead. Terence was in a terrible state when he got here that night. I thought at first he must have been attacked. But then it all came out. He'd found Moon lying dead in his office—murdered. He said Moon would have been expecting him, that he used to go there the same day every week. It was a regular thing, and I gather it had been going on for a month or two.' She sounded bitter at the deceit.

  'Why did he go there?' asked Llewellyn. 'Were they—having an affair?'

  'No!' Vehemently, she denied it. 'Moon was helping him to get together a portfolio for entry to Art College.'

  Rafferty raised his eyebrows. 'Moon was?'

  'Seeing as you know what that man did to my son, you'll also know that Moon was a trained artist. Anyway,' she went on. 'After knocking and ringing for a while, he went round the back and climbed onto the flat roof. He only broke in because he could see Moon's feet through the chink in the curtains and thought he'd been taken bad. Do you think he'd have broken in if he'd known he'd been murdered? With his record?'

  Rafferty thought it kinder not to mention the possibility that her son had killed Moon for the contents of the cash box. He could have watched Moon through the window, counting the money, and decided he'd rather have the money than the art lessons—if they had even happened and weren't just a product of Terry's Hadleigh's artful imagination, which seemed likely.

  'I can see what you're thinking,' she told him again. 'But my boy's not stupid. If he'd gone there to steal, he'd have worn gloves. He wouldn't have left his fingerprints for you to find. My son isn't stupid,' she repeated. 'He knew that much.'

  Rafferty didn't contradict her. Admittedly, nowadays, even the most moronic of burglars had heard of fingerprints. But, surprisingly, a lot of criminals still didn't bother to wear gloves. He didn't think Terry Hadleigh would have been any different to the rest of his breed. Even if he had exercised more caution than most, if he had gone there for the reason she said and had robbed Moon on an impulse, he presumably wouldn't have had gloves with him anyway.

  'What time is all this supposed to have happened?' Rafferty asked.

  Her chin went up again. 'Not supposed,' she insisted. 'Did happen. About 8.30 p m. That's when Terence found him. But he'd been ringing on the intercom for several minutes before that. He could see a light on in the hallway and when he went round the back Moon's office light was on. He said it all seemed as usual, except that Moon didn't answer the intercom.'

  'Did your son happen to mention how he met Moon again?'

  'They met in some pub. Terence said he recognised him straight away.' Her eyes looked searchingly into Rafferty's, as if anxious to discover if they would think her son had been on the make.

  He probably had been, Rafferty guessed. He'd probably made a beeline for the well-known Moon, confident of an evening's supply of free drinks – and other benefits – for keeping his mouth shut about the assault.

  'Moon would have recognised Terry, even if Terry didn't at first recognise him,' Rafferty told her. He nodded at a teenage photograph of Terry Hadleigh on the mantelpiece and recalled the latest mug shots they had of him. 'He hasn't changed so much. As soon as he saw him, Moon would have been out the door like a shot. The last thing he would be likely to do was to befriend him, to chat about old times.' Although Rafferty suspected he knew the real answer, he asked the question anyway. 'So why would Moon offer to give Terry art tuition?'

  'I don't know.' She met his eyes without flinching. 'I really don't know. Terence said he'd only mentioned his artistic ambitions to Moon in passing. He didn't expect him to offer to teach him.’

  Rafferty was sceptical. Moon was now very well known, a television personality, wealthy. He had too much to lose to take a chance on Hadleigh's forgiveness or discretion. If Moon's past became known, would the morning television people be willing to keep him on as resident astrologer? Would the magazine editors continue to offer him work? Their readership was predominantly female, and unlikely to take kindly to the continued employment of a known child molester. Fearing for their circulation in a tough competitive world, the magazines would be likely to drop him as quickly as the television station. Of course, if Hadleigh had recognised and threatened him before he had been able to get away, Moon might well have decided that art tuition would be the lesser of two evils.

  Ellen Hadleigh must suspect that her son had likely threatened Moon with exposure, as she struggled to supply a reason for his benevolence. 'Seems Moon had a bit of good in him somewhere, after all,' she eventually offered. 'Must have realised he owed my boy something for what he'd done to him. He ruined his life, ruined both our lives. The endless gossip and sniggers meant we had to move from Wakestead.' She named a town about eight miles away. 'We couldn't move too far, as I had to be able to get to my jobs. My health wasn't too good even then,' she explained. 'And I knew, if I gave them up all at once, I might have trouble getting other work. Had to give up our lovely Council flat, and all we could get at short notice was a swap into this sewer.' She glanced at them, then away. 'I suppose my Terence thought a bit of tuition wasn't much too ask by way of compensation. Terence always used to be so good at art at school, until...' She broke off, as though she couldn't bear to speak of the actual assault. Gathering herself together, she recommenced. 'Anyway, Moon offered to give him some coaching, bring him up to the necessary standard for college. That's why he went there. Not to steal, as you seem to think.'

  'Why didn't you tell me this before, Mrs Hadleigh?'

  She raised her gaze from the tightly-clenched hands i
n her lap. 'I hoped you wouldn't find out anything about it. Stupid of me. I should have guessed that Terence's fingerprints would be all over the office. But,' she added sharply. 'Would you have believed me, if I had told you voluntarily?' Rafferty said nothing, but his expression gave him away. 'I thought not. I know what you're thinking. My son didn't kill him. He was never violent, not my Terence, you must know that. It was always petty things he got in trouble for.'

  Her story sounded so improbable it might even be true, and, uneasily, Rafferty began to wonder if his open and shut case might not be getting away from him. Certainly, what she had said tied in with both the PM and Astell's evidence. If Hadleigh's story to his mother was true, and he hadn't killed Moon, then he must have missed the real murderer by only a matter of minutes. 'He didn't see anyone I suppose?'

  She shook her head.

  'You said he looked through the window,' Llewellyn broke in. 'Didn't he notice that Moon's office was a shambles, with files all over the floor?'

  'I told you, he only had a limited view through the chink in the curtains. He could see Moon's feet and the area just in front of the window, but nothing else. Not till he was over the sill.'

  Rafferty nodded gloomily. What she said made sense. Moon's office had two solid desks at right angles to each other in front of the window and the files had come from the filing cabinet at the far end of the room. There had been one or two papers near Moon's feet, but if he had noticed them, Hadleigh might have assumed Moon had dropped them as he fell. With his limited view of the room, and the angle of Moon's body, Hadleigh would have been unable to see either the shambles or Moon's smashed in skull.

  The front door hadn't been forced. And, apart from Hadleigh's smashed window, none of the entry points at the back had been forced either. Which, once again, indicated that – if Hadleigh hadn't killed him – then the murderer had either had access to a key or had been admitted by Moon himself.