“I can't afford to buy glossy magazines,” she told him scornfully. “A pound and 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 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 must have 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 in 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 hi
s 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.
“I'd like you to tell me exactly what happened to your son when he was a boy, Mrs Hadleigh,” he told her. “Please forgive me for asking it of you, but I want to hear it in your own words.”
Her eyes suddenly damp, she dabbed at them with a large, practical white handkerchief. It had been ironed, Rafferty noticed. He could see the stiff creases where the iron had criss-crossed the folds. She sniffed, put her handkerchief away, and sat up straighter in her chair. “He was only fourteen. Just a lad. And small for his age. Nice looking, too. Moon – Hedges was Terence's art teacher. He persuaded my boy to stay after school to help him sort out the art store. At least, that was the excuse he gave, but once he got him alone in the storeroom, he assaulted him. It was lucky that one of the cleaners heard his cries and discovered them or else...” She couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice as she added, “How that court came to let that wicked man off with a suspended sentence, I'll never understand. I suppose I should be grateful the cleaners interrupted his-his-” Apparently unable to find an adequate substitute for the word buggery, she fell silent for a few moments, before continuing.
“The attack and then the court case afterwards had a bad effect on my Terence, but he refused to talk to anyone about it. He just clammed up in the court and could barely be brought to say anything.” Her expression hardened again. “I'm convinced Hedges threatened him in some way. Anyway, he got off very lightly. My lad began to go to the bad soon after. At first it was just little things, money missing from my purse and such like. My husband left us shortly after. Not that he was much of a loss. Tom Hadleigh was always a waster. Too keen on the good things of life, but unwilling to work to pay for them. He ran off with a wealthy widow fifteen years older than him.”
With an abrupt gesture, she dismissed her ex-husband. “We were better off without him. My mother was right. I wish I'd listened to her.” She sighed. “I suppose I took to Tom because he was something of a dandy and as different a man from my fist handy father as I was likely to find. More fool me. He took to drink and gambling a few years after we married. I even found out he'd been visiting some kind of brothel in Soho.” She pursed her lips. “Funny that, because he'd never been much of a one for the physical side of marriage. Terence wasn't able to kid himself that his dad was such a plaster saint after that, I can tell you, I made sure of that. My son was a perfectly normal lad before that attack, very loving and thoughtful. That evil man, Moon, has a lot to answer for.”
She looked Rafferty firmly in the eye as if daring him to dispute it and told him, “He's not a bad boy, I don't care what anyone says. He's never hurt anybody. He was more sinned against than sinning.” Her face began to crumple, but after a fierce inner struggle, she fought off this display of weakness with the only thing she had left – pride, fierce and undefeated by all that life had thrown at her. “The only person he ever hurt was himself. He wouldn't deliberately hurt anyone, I know that. He was always such a gentle boy. That's why...” She stopped and flushed guiltily.
“Why you lied for him?” Rafferty said softly, guessing the rest. He felt sorry for her and wished he didn't have to make her admit to the other lies. But Superintendent Bradley's heart was made of pure granite and compassion a word not in his vocabulary, so he forced himself to go on. “There was no Mr Henderson, was there, love?” Surprisingly, he wasn't angry. He managed to forget the hours, the money and manpower wasted in search of the non-existent Henderson. But he wanted the matter cleared up. “Jasper Moon had no client the night he died, did he? You invented him so we would have another possible suspect to concentrate our energies on.”
Ellen Hadleigh seemed to shrink in her respectable dress, as if part of her had seeped out into the faded upholstery of her armchair. Her work-red hand retrieved the dampened handkerchief from a sleeve, as, from lips bloodless and tightly compressed, she whispered, “How did you find out?”
“I just remembered the name of the tobacconist's shop across the road from Moon's consulting room. That's where you got the name from, isn't it? I must admit, it seemed strange that Moon should see a client that night. Everyone told me he rarely saw clients on Thursday evenings; he liked to keep them free for other pursuits. Of course you didn't know that. How could you? You'd only worked there for a few weeks and Moon hadn't even been in the country till a few days before his death.”
Her head nodded in acknowledgment, and, as Rafferty stood up to go, she asked anxiously, “Are you going to arrest me for wasting police time?”
He reassured her, and she sank back in her chair in relief. After thanking him, she asked, “You'll—you'll let me know if—when you find Terence?”
Rafferty nodded. “Please don't get up,” he added, as she began to struggle to her feet. “We'll see ourselves out.” As he opened the front door, he heard the pop of the gas fire being turned off.
Rafferty glanced back at the rain-soaked flats as they reached the car. “What a dump. She's not had much of a life, has she, poor cow? Precious few happy memories, I shouldn't wonder and even less to look forward to.”
Llewellyn waxed philosophical as he climbed into the passenger seat; the prospect of suffering Rafferty's driving tended to bring on such moods. “"The mass of men – and women – lead lives of quiet desperation."”
“More wise words from your ancient Greeks?”
Llewellyn shook his head. “Thoreau.”
“French, hey. I always thought the French were too busy with cooking and cuckolding to bother with philosophising.”
‘Actually, he was American.’
Rafferty sighed. “Mind, he's got a point. I'll be feeling a bit quietly desperate myself if we don't shake something loose from all this. Get onto the station, Dafyd, and ask them to notify the media that this Henderson chap doesn't exist. I'll speak to them myself later, but I'll be more popular if they have the news before they put their papers to bed or have to alter the running order of their programmes.” When Llewellyn had got through to the station and relayed the message, Rafferty asked as he put down the microphone, “What do you reckon to this story about Terry Hadleigh and the art lessons, anyway?”
“Could be true.”
“Could also be a pack of lies.” Rafferty rammed the gear lever into reverse and Llewellyn winced. “Hadleigh and his mum had all night to concoct it.”
“In that case, I'd have thought they would have managed something rather better than a tale about art lessons. Ellen Hadleigh might be an unfortunate woman, but she didn't strike me as a stupid one. That tale is so improbable it could be the truth.”
Rafferty nodded gloomily. But he clung
desperately to his hopes of an early conclusion to the case. “It could also be a clever double-bluff, though I doubt either of them are that smart. Still.” Rafferty executed a nifty turn that had Llewellyn sucking in a quick breath as he just missed hitting the pavement, and headed back the way they had come. “When we pick him up we can ask him to produce his etchings – and I'll want something a bit more impressive than a copy of that Sunflower picture you rave about. Looks as if it was dashed off in a spare half hour by a backward ten year old. And it's bloody ugly. I might be willing to believe Terry Hadleigh's turned artistic if he can produce some decent evidence. I'll even buy one for ma.”
Rafferty heard his telephone ringing before he reached his office. He thrust the door open and snatched up the receiver.
“Appleby here, Joe.”
“Glad to find it's not only us poor detectives who work on a Sunday.”
“You know me, keen as mustard. I rang about those threads of fabric you found on the victim's desk. I thought I ought to let you know that they were from an expensive material. Cashmere, no less.”
“How long do you reckon they'd been there?”
“Not long, I'd guess. Whatever they came from was new fabric – it had never been washed or dry-cleaned. They were caught on the lower part of the desk, so, presumably came from a skirt or a pair of trousers. The black material was woven through with silver metal threads.”
“The glittery bits.” Rafferty nodded. “They'd be some fancy pants, and no mistake.”
“It takes all sorts. Anyway, we've subjected the fibres to a battery of tests; cross sectioning, micro-spectrophotometry – you name it, we've done it. We've got the fibre type, the dye composition and chemical behaviour. If you manage to find the material these threads come from, we'll be able to match them. Could be your murderer, Joe.”
Rafferty snorted. “And I'm the Queen of the May. They're probably just from the day-wear of one of Moon's more conservative rock star clients and nothing to do with the case at all.”
Death Line Page 12
