After a few more questions, Rafferty let Mrs Moreno go. “Can you accompany my sergeant so the fingerprint man can take your prints?” he asked. “Simply for purposes of elimination,” he explained before she could protest. Having expected her to make a fuss, he was surprised when she agreed with no difficulty. When she had gone with Llewellyn, Rafferty turned back to Astell. “I'm afraid you won't be able to use the premises until the forensic team have finished their work. Could be a day or two.”
Astell nodded. “Probably little point in opening, anyway, Inspector. With Jasper gone, the only people likely to want to make appointments will be the usual ghouls.”
From Astell's drawn features, Rafferty guessed that Moon's death would adversely affect the business. Moon – to a large extent – apparently was the business. “We'll do our best to keep the ghouls away, sir. I'll ask the forensic team to work as quickly as possible so you can get back to some kind of normality. One more thing. Which of your staff have keys to the premises?”
“All of them. Mrs Hadleigh, the cleaner, starts work before anyone else gets in. And, of course, the shop stays open till 6.00 p m to catch the returning office workers, so Mrs Moreno has a key. When Jasper is away on working trips abroad there would otherwise be no-one to lock up the shop.”
“But wouldn't yourself or Mrs Campbell still be working?”
“No. As I told you, both Mrs Campbell and myself concentrate more on the postal side, so work mainly office hours. Because of my wife's ill-health, I like to leave fairly promptly. She becomes upset if I'm not home when expected. Anyway, most people who require a personal consultation, naturally want to see Jasper. He's the one they've heard of, you see.”
“You don't mind?”
Astell shrugged. “We both had our niche. Some of the clients can get very emotional, very demanding. I'm better applying my skills at a distance, as it were. But Jasper is – was – splendid at dealing with such people. Besides, I still spent a large part of my time on the book-keeping, and so on.”
“I understand Mr Moon was a wealthy man?” Astell nodded. “Do you know if he made a Will?”
“I've no idea. But I can give you the name of his solicitors.” He did so as Llewellyn popped his head round the door. Rafferty said, “You won't forget to check that none of Mr Moon's client files are missing before you go, sir? I'll assign one of my officers to help you.”
Astell shook his head.
“Llewellyn, check that the SOCOs have finished with the filing cabinet and diary, will you, before you take Mr Astell for his prints?” He turned back to Astell as Llewellyn vanished. “There is one more thing before you go, sir. Could you let me know the name of Mr Moon's next of kin? Was he married?”
Again Astell shook his head.
“So, who would his next of kin be?”
“I don't know. His parents were both dead and he had no brothers or sisters. He never talked about having any close family.”
“He lived alone then?”
“Actually, Jasper didn't live alone. He, um, he lived with another man, by the name of Farley. Christian Farley.”
Rafferty stared at him for a moment, before what Astell had said sunk in. “I see. Have Moon and this Mr Farley lived together long?”
“About five years, I believe.”
Happily anticipating nothing more than the usual short duration of most homosexual romances, Rafferty felt a sinking sensation at this news. Moon and Farley's relationship had lasted longer than many modern marriages and his stomach tensed at the thought of the embarrassment and difficulties to come. No matter how hard he tried to act normally, homosexuals always made him feel awkward; it was something else for which he could thank the Catholic church. Although consciously he'd rejected their teachings on most things, some aspects had evidently taken subconscious root. Even now, he still felt a twinge of guilt whenever he used a condom; the Catholic church having long frowned on any sexual act that wasn't purely and simply for the procreation of children. And their views on homosexual unions were like something out of the Middle-Ages, full of fire and brimstone warnings that unnatural practises earned an eternity in a devilish barbeque pit where they never ran out of charcoal. Rafferty wondered how he would have coped after such indoctrination if he had found his sexual inclinations to be other than male-female? Back came the answer; badly. He supposed, with all the givens, he should be thankful that awkward was all he felt in their company. He cleared his throat. “Is, er, is Mr Moon's... Is this Mr Farley likely to be at home now, do you think?”
“I imagine so. He doesn't have any kind of employment. Hasn't had any for the last two years. I'd-I'd break the news gently, Inspector. Farley can be a little emotional. Of course, he's a Cancer sun with a Pisces Moon, so it's understandable. Two Water signs prominent in his chart, you see.”
Rafferty stared at him in dismay. Homosexual and emotional. He just hoped this Farley didn't fling himself round his neck and burst into tears. He couldn't be sure that his reaction would be as sympathetic as Farley's loss warranted and Llewellyn was unlikely to be much help. The Welshman had confided to Rafferty at the beginning of their very first case together, that as a boy, his minister father had insisted on him accompanying him to break news of death. His distaste for such tasks had increased with the years, and now, such occasions rendered him even more awkward than Rafferty among homosexuals. It was one of the intellectual Welshman's more human weaknesses and Rafferty liked him the better for it.
By the time Rafferty had checked a few more points, Llewellyn had returned, and he let Astell go. After ringing the station and organising the house-to-house team, he nominated several officers to make a start in listing Moon's client files as soon as Astell had confirmed there were none missing.
Virginia Campbell had still not turned up, though the officer assigned to check her address said a neighbour had confirmed she had been about that morning, so Rafferty ruled out the possibility of a flit. If she had reason to flit, last night would have been the time to do it. Maybe it was as Astell had said and Moon had given her a second day off without mentioning the fact. Hopefully she would return home at some point during the day, because he would need to get her statement. “Right', he turned to the hovering Llewellyn. 'Let's go and see Moon's boyfriend.” Rafferty told him what Astell had said, and as he had expected, Llewellyn's long face grew appreciably longer. “Farley has two Water signs prominent, according to Astell,” Rafferty told him. “So I reckon we can expect plenty of waterworks. Cheer up, Dafyd.” Rafferty couldn't resist the dig. “With such sensitive palms, you should have no trouble mopping him up. Let's get moving.”
CHAPTER THREE
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 th
e 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 that 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, 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.
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