Death Line

by Geraldine Evans

  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, forties look. The two naked young men caressing each other under the trees sported short back and sides 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. “A favourite of the police force in the forties.”

  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 here? 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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rafferty's feeling of irritation, like most of his moods, quickly passed. “Glad to see you're back to your wise-cracking self again,” he teased Llewellyn, as with the news-breaking now behind them, the Welshman's cello-length features had reverted to their normal fiddle proportions.

  Llewellyn parked the car precisely in the centre of the marked lines of the police station car park and turned off the ignition before he replied. “I've never considered murder to be a joking matter, sir,” he quietly rebu
ked. The words, "unlike you", hovered unspoken between them.

  Rafferty, defensive in turn, retorted, “We all have our own ways of coping with the strain, Dafyd. Just because I find it helps to keep my sense of humour intact doesn't mean I'm some kind of flinty-hearted dog. Surely you know that by now?”

  Llewellyn studied him silently for a few moments before, with a nod of his head, he acknowledged the truth of this.

  “You could do with lightening up a bit yourself, you know,” Rafferty advised, as they got out of the car and headed towards the station. “With all your psychology training, you must realise that your way of coping with strain is bad for the health. You're in serious danger of going doolally before you're forty.”

  “Do you think that will be before or after you're admitted to the coronary ward owing to your unhealthy lifestyle, sir?”

  Rafferty, who liked a drink, loathed exercise, and, until recently, had been a thirty a day man, grinned, said “Touché,” and slapped Llewellyn between the shoulder blades. “Come on, fiddle-face. Let's see if we can't catch ourselves that murderer before Bradley's PIMPmobile comes for me.” Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the letter to Hedges. “The first thing is to find out Moon's real name. Farley seemed a touch bashful about revealing it. Maybe Moon's famous clients aren't the only ones with skeletons rattling in the closets?”

  Mrs Hadleigh hadn't taken long over the photo-fit and had gone by the time they returned to the station. Having instructed one of the junior officers to type up her statement, Rafferty, feet on desk, read it through, before asking Llewellyn, “What do you make of the cleaner's evidence, Dafyd? Think Moon saw someone else after this Henderson bloke? Would he be likely to kill Moon when he knew the cleaner had seen him and could identify him?”

  Llewellyn's bony fingers stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Not if it was a premeditated killing. But, from what you, yourself said, the type of murder indicates it was done on the spur of the moment. A sudden rush of blood to the head, you might say.”

  “And a sudden rush of crystal ball to Jasper Moon's.” Rafferty nodded. “The killer didn't bring the murder weapon with him. Astell told us it belonged to Moon and that it usually sat on his desk.” He was silent for a moment, contemplating the rest of the cleaner's statement. “Mrs Hadleigh implied Henderson was worked up about something, as if he was...”

  “She said he seemed nervous,” Llewellyn corrected. “That could mean anything. Perhaps only that he was consulting Moon about some pressing personal problem. Confiding in a third party would be enough to agitate most people. At the moment, he's merely one possibility,” he reminded Rafferty. “Perhaps, when we find out Moon's previous identity, we'll discover many more.”

  Llewellyn was right, of course, and Rafferty told himself to slow down. As usual, he was rushing ahead of the game. He often wished he had Llewellyn's calm, rational approach to crime. The logical, Holmesian process of deduction might – jokingly – have been claimed by Sam Dally, but Dafyd Llewellyn was the true practitioner of the art. Rafferty had never been able to work that way and doubted he ever would. He put it down to his genes, inherited from generations of hot-headed, impulsive Irishmen. When he saw a clue – even when he only thought he saw a clue – he wanted to be up and at it, clutching at it and the straws that came with it. He knew it was inefficient, but it was the way he functioned. And it seemed to work most of the time – eventually.

  He smiled ruefully at his sergeant and decided to show him that he could go about things in a logical manner. “It strikes me that the quickest way to find out if this Henderson was a client is to ask Astell.” Llewellyn picked up the phone, but Rafferty waved it away. “No. Let's pay a visit. I want to speak to Mrs Astell, anyway. There are a number of points I want to check.”

  The Astells lived in some style. Of course, Ellen Hadleigh had mentioned that Mrs Astell was well off, Rafferty remembered, so Astell presumably wasn't dependant on the business for income, which, from what he had said, was fortunate in the circumstances.

  The house was on two floors and detached. Mid Nineteenth century, according to Rafferty's knowledgeable guess, it stood in its own small grounds and while not by any means ostentatious, it was one of those irregularly-built old houses which incorporated bay windows, a gabled porch, steeply-pitched roofs and tall chimney stacks, which together gave the house a picturesque charm.

  Ellen Hadleigh opened the door. After his initial surprise at seeing her there, Rafferty remembered Astell had told them she cleaned for them. He explained that they wanted to speak to Astell and she stood back, gesturing for them to enter the square hall. “He's not here at the moment,” she told them. “I don't think he'll be long, though, if you want to wait.”

  The hall was lined with photographs, and Rafferty remembered that Astell's late father-in-law had been a well-known Society photographer. He recognised a lot of the faces; many of them were still featured in the gossip columns today. “Maybe we could have a word with Mrs Astell while we wait?” Rafferty suggested. He felt sure, that being female, Mrs Astell might have some interesting insights into the victim. Besides, he needed to get her statement.

  Mrs Hadleigh frowned. “She's lying down at the moment. She doesn't usually see visitors.”

  Rafferty forbore from remarking that they were scarcely visitors in the accepted sense. “We won't keep her long, tell her. Mr Astell mentioned that his wife's a semi-invalid. Some kind of nervous ailment, I gather?”

  “Too much time to think and not enough to do.” Bluntly, Ellen Hadleigh gave them her opinion. “And I don't think all those pills help any. A little job would do her more good, get her out and about, seeing people. It's not as if she's got anything physically wrong with her, yet she's become worse rather than better since she had Victoria five years ago. Still,” she pursed her lips. “It's none of my business. If you'll wait here for a minute, I'll ask if she'll see you.”

  It was hot in the hall, and Rafferty was grateful for an opportunity to ease his shirt collar away from his neck without being observed. Ellen Hadleigh opened one of the doors to the right side of the hall. It led into a small sitting room that overlooked the shrubbery. Rafferty edged forward and caught a glimpse of Sarah Astell through the open door. Her eyes were closed and she was stretched out on a chaise-longue beneath the old fashioned French windows. Long, stick-like wrists and ankles protruded from beneath the brown mound of the blanket; pale beneath the soil rich colouring of the cover; like the bones of a recently disinterred skeleton, they looked unused to sunlight. The shrubs bordering the house, already denuded of leaves, appeared to crouch over her body like so many under-nourished triffids ready to devour her. Their stems whipped back against the window by the strengthening east wind tap-tapped a staccato, vaguely Hitchcockian rhythm. Beneath their eerie tapping, the house was hung about with an almost monastic silence.

  Ellen Hadleigh's brisk voice shattered the silence to announce the visitors. Mrs Astell's head swivelled towards them. It was a pinched, unhappy face, mauve-shadowed under the eyes.

  Passing them as they entered, Ellen Hadleigh cautioned before closing the door behind them, “Please try to keep it short or I'll be in Mr Astell's bad books. He won't have her upset.”

  Even before the door had closed, the hot-house atmosphere of the room engulfed them. Rafferty had felt stifled in the hall, but this room was far more oppressive and must be several degrees hotter. He assumed that the temperature was kept high for Mrs Astell's sake; she was certainly thin enough to need the extra warmth. Rafferty knew she was only 38, but she looked much older, her skin covered with a network of fine lines which gave the impression she might crack at any moment.

  Quickly, aware he had been staring, Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn, shuffling forward cautiously, feeling out of place in the dainty room. What with bottles of sleeping pills, and tranquillizers and stomach mixtures littering one table, and photographs and delicate knick-knacks crowded on another, he was scared he would blunder into one of them an
d break something precious. Strange, Rafferty mused. Why was it that women who seemed to have everything – film stars, models, leisured wives – often found their easy, pampered lives difficult to cope with? So many seemed to develop nervous problems behind which they nursed a drink or drug habit. Rafferty had never understood it. His mother had had more pressures to contend with than most. Left widowed with six kids to support, she had never turned to anything more than the occasional bottle of Babysham to sustain her. Of course, she had barely had enough money to pay the bills, never mind indulge expensive tastes.

  He started to sweat, the deodorised male odour mingled with the smells of sickness; of menthol, cough syrup, liniment, and were swallowed up as efficiently as a snapping dog swallows a fly.

  Sarah Astell gave them a wan smile. “Do please sit down, gentleman,” she invited, voice weak, the words well-spaced out between shallow breaths. “I imagine you're here about Jasper Moon's death?”

  “That's right, Mrs Astell,” Rafferty replied quietly. The heat and the smells in the unventilated room brought back painful memories of his wife's stay in the hospice. Angie's had been a lingering, painful death, the pain not always, at the end, successfully alleviated by drugs. His shoulders hunched as he remembered the rows he'd tried to avoid, the smouldering resentments they had both felt, in his case compounded by guilt that he no longer loved her – if he ever had. He shouldn't shut his mind off from them, his doctor had advised, they should be faced, but Rafferty didn't agree. Dwelling on that time didn't help him come to terms with it; perhaps it never would and now he closed off that section of his brain. Such memories were better confined to the mental dustbin, the lid banged firmly on. Rafferty forced a smile and glanced round for a seat more sturdy than the small, flounced boudoir chair at the end of the day bed. The only other choice was a scarcely more substantial spindly-legged settee. It didn't look strong enough to support him and Llewellyn, and he lowered his lanky body gingerly.